I’ve always been sensitive. Ever since I was a kid, I could feel things most people didn’t notice. I’d have dreams or visions and tell my mom things before they happened—little flashes of the future, details I couldn’t explain (like knowing she was pregnant with my brother Kyle before anyone else did). I felt everything so deeply, even in a home where emotions weren’t exactly welcome. It was the kind of place where silence said more than words, and addiction quietly moved through the generations like a shadow no one talked about.

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I didn’t grow up with emotional safety. I grew up in survival. In fact, I learned early on how to shape-shift. How to stay quiet. How to read a room before I read a book!

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At 17, I started seeing Spirit—not just sensing energy but truly seeing and hearing messages from the other side. The veil had always been thin for me, but now it was wide open. By 19, I was giving mediumship readings, both on stages and in quiet, sacred 1:1 spaces. I didn’t set out to become a medium—it just happened.

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While most teenagers were choosing majors and planning dorm room décor, I was trying to find the courage to tell strangers their loved ones had made it safely to the other side—sometimes in mall food courts, sometimes at my job. My path didn’t come with a map. It came with visions I couldn’t ignore, messages I didn’t always know how to deliver, and a deep ache to understand why I’d been given this gift.

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But even with all of that—Spirit showing up, lives shifting, healing happening—I still didn’t feel whole. Something inside me was still fractured, still searching for its own peace.

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Because spiritual sight doesn’t make you immune to trauma.

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I found myself caught in cycles of addiction—not because I didn’t know better, but because I was still trying to feel safe in a world that had never taught me how. For me, alcohol became the easiest way to quiet everything. The grief, the anxiety, the memories I didn’t know how to hold. It numbed the ache just enough to get through the day. And I wasn’t drinking to forget, I was drinking to survive.

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And the truth is, I hadn’t yet learned how to feel what I was carrying. I didn’t have the tools, only the pain. For a while, alcohol felt like the only thing that understood me. It wrapped around my nervous system like a warm blanket, even as it pulled me farther from myself. And for a time, survival was enough. But eventually, something inside me whispered that I wasn’t here just to survive, I was here to wake up. To feel it all. To heal. And to come home to myself.

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In my late twenties going into my thirties, I spent years building a life I believed in—a home full of love, children, and dreams for the future. In my romantic relationship at that time, I poured everything I had into that vision: my heart, my devotion, my hope. But sometimes, the life we imagine slowly unravels behind closed doors, and we’re left holding the pieces of something we never thought would break.

 

And it did. 

 

Years later, I opened my heart again—still believing in love, in partnership, in the possibility of being met with steady presence. But life had other plans. What came next was another deep rupture. Abandonment that was sudden, painful, and left without explanation or closure. A moment that should’ve brought support instead left me standing alone.

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One day, I had a partner and a plan. The next, I was a mother of four, holding it all with nothing but faith, grit, and the will to keep moving forward. 

 

It wasn’t the life I imagined—but it became the path that brought me back to myself.

 

And I had every reason to fall apart.
But I didn’t.
I rose. 

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I picked up what I had and rebuilt my life from the rubble. What carried me through was remembering who I truly am—a guide, a mother, a channel, a teacher. I kept listening to the quiet whisper that said: "You are here to serve". So I followed it.

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Now, I walk beside others as they rise from their own ruins. Not to fix them, but to remind them:

You are not broken. Healing is possible. And everything you’ve walked through holds wisdom.

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I'm also raising four sons in a world that teaches men to suppress, perform, and disconnect from their hearts. So, I’m teaching them to feel, to speak, and to lead with both strength and softness. Because healing the masculine—through the way I mother—is part of my path, too.

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And I'm no guru. I’m not interested in hierarchy. I hold no psychology degrees. But I’m someone who’s walked through darkness with her eyes open and lived to light the way for others.

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I don’t offer surface solutions. I hold space for soul reclamation.​ If you’re in the middle of your own unraveling—grief, trauma, addiction, spiritual awakening, heartbreak—I want you to know:

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You don’t need to have it all together. You just need to be willing to come home to yourself.​ I’ve walked that path.

 

And I’m here to walk with you now.

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-Jackie xx

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