When I scheduled my appointment with the psychic medium, I was desperate to connect with my late husband, who had succumbed to a debilitating illness that robbed him of his mind before we could share the words we needed. I was aware that it would take less than three minutes for her to find my story online; I had penned countless reflections on the final year of his life and my early days as a young widow. I knew I was a prime target, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I longed to believe. I wanted to feel less isolated, to think that we could finally voice the thoughts left unspoken. I craved something intangible yet essential for my healing over the past two years, and I was ready to dismiss logic and skepticism to grasp it.
I chose the date deliberately—November 11—11/11—felt meaningful, almost magical. I parked in front of a modest white house, knocked on the door, and waited. And waited. Minutes passed, and I double-checked the address sent via social media. I was in the right place at the right time.
Just as I contemplated leaving, a white SUV pulled up, and a woman inside appeared to be having a heated phone conversation. I hesitated, wondering if I had made a mistake. Was I chasing shadows? I turned on the car and drove away, only to receive a message that read, “Hi. I’m here in the white car.”
After exchanging a few messages, I returned to the house, skepticism creeping in, yet still yearning for that connection I had been missing. The psychic apologized for her phone call, but her demeanor shifted as she unlocked the door. I chose to ignore the dissonance; perhaps she was just a skilled actress.
She led me to the basement of her parents’ home, where I settled onto a sagging couch. The coffee table was littered with papers, and the bright lights made the space feel unmagical. Still, I stayed, clinging to the hope that one specific reference from my husband would spark my belief.
She glanced at the photo I had brought—one of us on our wedding day. If she hadn’t done her research beforehand, this picture would certainly provide her with context. As she began to doodle, her gaze drifted, seemingly peering into another world. My heart sank as her initial words came out hastily, devoid of the ambiance I had hoped for. I wanted to believe in something greater, but the reality around us felt too stark.
She asked if my husband often sat with his legs crossed. I couldn’t recall, and that realization broke my heart. He had been gone for less than two years, yet I struggled to remember something so simple. When she tossed out the word “goofy” to describe him, I hesitated. He had a sharp wit and great humor, but “goofy”? Perhaps my memories were fading.
I had come seeking a connection, but instead, I felt the weight of my loss. Yet, I wanted to believe. As she continued, she mentioned a man named Ben and spoke of the number three and pizza. I frantically searched for links to my husband in her words, desperate to feel his presence. Each vague reference felt like a thread connecting me to him, and I allowed myself to sink deeper into her narrative.
Despite knowing the tactics psychics often use—reading cues, delivering general statements—I chose to overlook them. I wanted magic to be real. I craved miracles.
As the conversation progressed, she asked about an upcoming day that held significance for me. I shared that it was the day my article would be published on a site with millions of followers—the largest audience I had ever written for. She said my husband was proud of my writing, and tears welled in my eyes.
She continued, stating he understood my loneliness and assured me he was always with me. Although the notion of a young widow feeling lonely felt somewhat cliché, I couldn’t help but wipe away my tears. Leaning forward, she told me he would send someone into my life in the next two years to help with my loneliness. Panic surged within me as I wondered whether he would be angry at me for considering someone else. She assured me he wanted me to find happiness.
Trying to keep my voice steady, I asked the question that had haunted me: Would I ever be truly happy again? She looked at me with a soft expression and said yes. I took a deep breath as our session came to a close.
Leaving the house, I felt conflicted. I hadn’t received the one clear sentence I needed to feel his presence. Instead, I got vague hints that danced around the truth. The psychic hadn’t convinced me that my husband was right there with me, nor had she filled the void of unspoken words. Perhaps that emptiness would remain with me forever. Yet, she offered me something else—a flicker of hope, that elusive feeling I had been missing for two years.
Because I chose…because I choose…to believe.
For those navigating similar paths, you might find reflections on grief and healing in this other blog post. Additionally, if you’re interested in topics around pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource.
Summary: After losing her husband, the author sought the guidance of a psychic medium, hoping to connect with her late spouse. Despite her skepticism, she clung to the hope of finding solace through the session. While the psychic’s vague references left her wanting more concrete evidence of her husband’s presence, she ultimately walked away with a renewed sense of hope for the future.