Before The Veil Lifted: Segments of A Working Memoir (Part 1)
By the age of three, I’d often be found tucked away inside my closet, sitting neatly on the floor in my car seat, staring upward at an invisible figure while carrying on full-blown conversations. Not the babbling or pretending kind—these were real dialogues, filled with long pauses, thoughtful responses, and the occasional nod, as if I were listening carefully to someone who simply wasn’t visible to anyone else in the room.
My parents oscillated between worry and a resigned kind of acceptance—like a babysitter who discovers a toddler mixing Play-Doh with real dirt and decides to hope it’s harmless. What might have been written off as an imaginary friend was soon revealed to be something far stranger—a ghost. A tall one, apparently. My mother, who’s always silently carried her own psychic gifts, began noticing a shadowy male figure drifting in and out of my room throughout the day. She caught glimpses of him out of the corner of her eye—a fleeting silhouette, barely there but undeniably present. My father, who often kept his demons and otherworldly experiences to himself—except through his brilliant artwork—intuitively understood that something real was happening, despite the church’s insistence that it was evil or a form of fixated paranoia.
Over the years, we came to acknowledge many odd presences, and it became part of our fabric. Somewhere between “Oh great, another ghost” and “Well, that tracks,” it became clear: I was tapping into something unknown. But I didn’t have any fear. What was there to fear? Reality, to a child, is not black or white—not even gray—but a palette of colors, all of them true.
One experience that stays vivid in my memory happened not too soon after, when I filmed an episode of Unsolved Mysteries a year after our first mutually acknowledged encounter. On set, an unseen force repeatedly interfered with the sound and camera equipment, forcing the crew to relocate entirely. The irony wasn’t lost on me—I was cast as a young girl who had passed from cancer, whose grieving parents sought a psychic medium to communicate with her from the other side. In retrospect, the whole thing felt like life handing me a cosmic side-eye: “Pay attention, little one.”
Then there was Thanksgiving when I was about eight. My entire father’s side of the family gathered in Julian, California, and took over a historic inn like a well-fed, loud, and deeply opinionated swarm. We occupied an entire floor—my aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents—our laughter and footsteps bouncing off the aged walls. The old building creaked under the weight of us, either from age or sheer overstimulation. For better or worse, we were a powerful troupe.
Late that night, I woke to the unmistakable sounds of children playing in the hallway. The kind of wild, unchecked laughter and running feet that only kids with no bedtime or supervision can produce. Chaotic excitement. Except—everyone was asleep. Dead silent. Not a single cousin stirred.
By then, I had developed a deep, unwavering sense of knowing—gut feelings that didn’t ask permission and refused to be ignored. Children have that unique kind of magic—their words and actions untouched by filters or pretense. Impulsively, I told my mother with complete confidence that the inn was haunted. Her response surprised me. She admitted that, earlier that evening, while leaving the downstairs bar to check on my little brother and I, she had seen an apparition—a woman dressed in full colonial garments, from bonnet to dress. No blurry shadows or ambiguous shapes—clear as day. Bingo.
Naturally, I did what any precocious eight-year-old would do: I marched right over to the front desk and started talking to the older woman behind the counter. This type of behavior was typical for me as a child—wandering fearlessly, always finding souls, living or otherwise, to talk their ears off. “Is this place haunted?” I asked, as casually as inquiring about the continental breakfast. Elbows grounded on the desk, chin cradled in thought — the quizzical cherub from da Vinci’s Madonna, contemplating the unseen. She smiled knowingly. “Yes, it is. What leads you to ask?”
That question sparked me to life. Questions always did. They were invitations—permission to dive headfirst into someone’s inner world and unload my stories as if I’d been waiting my whole life for this cue. I eagerly shared everything my mother and I had experienced, complete with animated, borderline theatrical retellings—the kind most adults politely endure before gently changing the subject. But she didn’t.
Instead, moments later, she led us into a small room just off the bar. She pointed to an old black-and-white photograph—the kind so dramatic it practically smells of history. I glanced at my mother and watched the color drain from her face in real time. It didn’t take long to connect the dots.
The woman in the photo was unmistakably the same figure my mother had seen. The woman behind the desk explained that this spirit was a member of the family who built the inn and surrounding properties. Apparently, she often revealed herself to motherly guests—still overseeing her home, still making sure everyone was tucked in properly. Death hadn’t stripped her of her duties. Talk about commitment.
These kinds of experiences threaded through my childhood and teen years, reinforcing a belief encoded into my DNA. My Christian upbringing never overrode that knowing, even when I attended a private Christian school, where talks like these were branded devil’s work and the entire Harry Potter series was banned for no fucking reason. In the end, faith in God or a higher power never disappeared—but my tolerance for the judgment and rigid walls of organized religion eventually did.
After church on weekends, my family often turned the local malls into our makeshift playgrounds. My brother and I would run amok, darting between stores and treating the place like our own personal adventure zone. But whenever I got the chance, I’d peel away as quickly and quietly as possible during these ritual strolls. My destination never changed: the bookstore on the second floor. Borders. There, I’d slip into the metaphysical section—my forbidden fruit—and lose myself among crisp books on witchcraft, the paranormal, and religions that felt worlds away from the Christian faith I’d grown up with.
Those secret, electric moments felt like reclaiming pieces of myself I wasn’t yet allowed to voice. My curiosity—and my stubborn refusal to stop asking questions—became my lifeline during those early years. It wasn’t without its share of guilt, of course, but it opened a gateway for my imagination to roam freely—much like the stage would later become my sanctuary and safe space.
I sailed through high school as a straight-A student and class clown, mostly distracted by theatrical antics and hanging out with my bohemian crew. Our world was a swirl of late-night jam sessions, smoky basements, and endless cups of strong, bitter coffee. The psychic experiences—the subtle nudges, flashes, and feelings—were still happening, but somehow they shifted. It was like I’d been handed a dimmer switch instead of a spotlight. I could almost turn them off when I wanted to. My gifts hadn’t yet started to overwhelm my emotional and physical body the way they would in my early 20’s. Back then, it felt light, playful—a little secret tucked behind my smile.
In my senior year, I took AP Psychology, mostly because my friend convinced me it would be a breeze, and Mr. O’Grady was an absolute character. He was a self-proclaimed mystic, a storyteller with a crooked grin who loved to make us laugh while bending our minds. It wasn’t rare for him to roll in a TV cart and play episodes of Ghost Hunters, diving into discussions about psychics, mediums, and spirits like it was all just part of the syllabus. I ate up every second. Finally—someone gets it. Or at least they pander to it.
One day, he pulled out a regular old deck of poker cards. He split the deck into two piles—red cards and black cards—and paired us off into teams. The assignment was deceptively simple: have your partner shuffle before hovering your hands over the cards, face down, and sense which were red and which were black. No cheating, no peeking. “Just trust your intuition and pay attention to any change in temperature in your hands. That’s your psychic signal,” he told us.
I remember feeling skeptical but game. After all, I always had a competitive streak as an Aries sun. The cards were laid face down on the table so we couldn’t tell which was which. My fingers hovered hesitantly at first, then with more certainty. I started to find a pattern. Every time my hand moved over a red card, I felt a strange burning warmth—a quick, sharp heat as if I’d just touched a stove element that was still cooling down. It made my skin tingle, a little thrill running through my veins. When the black cards came, my hand stayed cool and calm. Somehow, I got every single one right. Every. Single. One.
Was it the ink, maybe? Or just dumb luck? I still wonder. But looking back, I realize I’d set my intention, focused my energy, and the information simply followed, like a shadow trailing behind. Eventually, I came to embrace the fact that the most profound magic is often created from pure, blind faith.
Later that summer, after graduation, there was this party at a townhouse in Temecula. The kind of night where the air was sticky with heat, the faint smell of Skywalker O.G. mixed with the sweet tang of spilled beer and nervous excitement. I was in the garage with my friend Crystal, taking drags of a cigarette and listening to the muffled chaos inside. The walls felt close, the dim yellow light flickering overhead, casting long shadows. I could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around us while the garage door was wide open. Then suddenly, like a wave breaking over me, panic crashed through my chest.
I couldn’t hold it back. I started sobbing uncontrollably, my breath hitching and leaving me gasping for air like I’d been underwater too long. Something bad is going to happen. I have a terrible feeling. Nobody should be driving. That’s all I could say, over and over like a broken record. My voice trembled; my whole body shook.
Crystal, calm as ever, reached out and grabbed my hand. Her warmth grounded me, her steady presence a lifeline. She was always my ride or die. She told me to breathe, took me through slow counts, and then handed me a filled shot glass. I downed it, not because it fixed anything, but because it was something to hold on to.
I left the party with another friend, ears still ringing with the distant sounds of laughter and anger colliding. Later, I found out a fight had broken out inside, messy and desperate, and someone had gotten behind the wheel and crashed their car after I left. Strangely enough, I released a sigh of relief the moment I heard the news. Not because I was glad it happened. I was just relieved to know that I wasn’t being over-dramatic or acting like a drunken mess. I felt that something was going to happen. And it did.
Despite the powerful streak of foresight, that night was the first time I completely lost control of my emotions during a psychic hit. The information was no longer a playful trick or a flicker of intuition—it was raw, overwhelming, and frankly, terrifying. I felt like I’d been pulled under a current I couldn’t swim against. Little did I know, this was just the beginning—the energy and lesson I was about to face head-on during college, in ways I couldn’t yet understand.
Check back for Part 2 on March 1st, 2026