A Journalist Came to Test Me. Her Late Father Came Through Instead.

Some of my favourite people are the ones who arrive as gentle skeptics, notebook in hand, quietly certain they are going to catch the trick. The writer from Torontonicity was one of them, and I say that with real affection, because I was a non-believer myself once. I understand the posture.

We sat down, and I did what I always do. I do not need your story first. When the channel is clear, it drops right in. Her father came through, and I gave his name. Her childhood dog came through with the specific, silly, unmistakable details that a stranger could never guess. There was a bear walking beside her, her spirit animal, steady and protective. And there was an old ache from a childhood accident that she had never mentioned to anyone in that room.

I share this not to boast, but because accuracy is the whole point. A true reading is not a vague, poetic horoscope you can bend to fit any life. When the channel is dialled in, it leaves receipts, the concrete, on-the-nose details that let a person finally exhale and think, that was really them. That is what I want for everyone who sits with me. Not a performance. Proof, and the peace that comes with it.