- Intuitive Interpreter
- Jan 23
- 5 min read
When I walk into a corner shop, I don’t start reading the person behind the till’s love life — or hint that their partner’s having an affair.
And the same goes for social interactions. I don’t meet people for the first time and ‘get to know them’ by predicting the answers to simple questions like how many siblings they have or what they do for work, just to impress them. That would be draining — especially when I could simply ask. And it wouldn’t feel respectful.
From as young as before I was three, I was rejecting any confirmation of who I truly was. I was convinced there had to be a logical explanation for why I knew things — or said things — I had no business revealing, and no intent of revealing.
I remember strangers coming up to me on the street telling me I was special, and I’d look at them sideways and brush it off. Even when unexplainable experiences happened, I’d tell myself there must be a reason — just not one I had yet. Not knowing the reason didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
When my mentor told me she’d show me what all these strange people were seeing in me, for the first time I thought: I’ve got nothing to lose. Let’s put an end to the speculation.
My barriers came down — and the blindfold went on.
Literally. I was blindfolded.
My other senses heightened. I couldn’t see who was sitting across from me. Once I finished, the next person rotated in.
These weren’t friends. They were strangers my mentor brought into the room moments before — people working in the building, or walking past outside — randomly chosen, rotating in and out.
What I saw in my mind’s eye was like watching a memory play out — but what hit strongest was what I felt. I’ve always picked up emotion intensely. Some people call that empathic.
At the end, I got to hear from the people who’d sat across from me. What I thought might be random had meaning — some of it unsettling in how detailed and precise it was.
How was I describing the scenes in my third eye — exactly what had happened to the woman and her boyfriend the day before? And how did I know about a new blue puppy — when the woman sitting opposite me, who happened to be from the group, didn’t understand that part at all? I thought I’d got it wrong…
Until later that evening, when the group sat down to eat together. I heard it before I saw it — the sighs at the far end of the table, the trickle of voices making its way down to me. A text had come through. After the meal, she approached me and showed me the message — a photo attached of the new blue puppy. The amazement on her face as she showed me… and on the faces of the ones who’d heard her say earlier that she didn’t know what I was talking about.
And how could I describe, through translation, the details of another woman’s late grandmother’s living room — the treasured items, the layout, even the last words she said before she died? She didn’t speak the same language as me. She was crying as it came through — animated, emotional — telling her boyfriend everything, and he translated it back to me as gently as he could.
What sounded like nonsense when I was saying it kept being true. I realised I didn’t need to understand the message — I just needed to pass it on.
That’s when it all caught my attention.
I became my own secret sceptic detective. I started observing myself, treating the experiences like evidence — testing coincidence, high probability, patterns — trying to work out how I was doing this. Trusting something I couldn’t fully comprehend — it was bigger than I was — yet I was determined to understand it, and understand myself.
And when I finally became brave enough to say, “This… whatever this is, I can do it,” none of the labels felt right. They either sounded too dramatic, too small, or came with assumptions I didn’t have. I didn’t want a costume. I wanted an explanation.
One colleague said, “I knew it. You read my mind constantly.” She told me so many times she’d come into a shift and I’d say out loud exactly what she’d been thinking. I was shocked — not because I didn’t believe her, but because I hadn’t realised I was doing it. The part that spooked me wasn’t the ability. It was that it had been happening regularly… and I hadn’t noticed.
The more I continued, the less I could pin it down to one neat answer. I started thinking: I know I’m not the only person who experiences this. Maybe we all do, in different ways. Maybe if we documented it properly, we’d stop treating it like a taboo and start treating it like information.
People call it all sorts. Some honour it. Some mock it. Most avoid it.
But what if it was just human? Human evolution. Human perception.
I started noticing it everywhere the moment I stopped pretending I didn’t. In actors, singers, films, books, writers — and in everyday people who would never use the word “psychic” but still know things. People who enter that space… that zone… and something moves through them that’s bigger than performance.
So I guess I was right all along — though I never fit in and always felt different. It wasn’t that I was “special.” If anything, my experiences revealed our connection, despite differences.
As my mum would tell me: “we are one”.
And the more we share what we experience, the more we learn — not just about others, but about ourselves. I’ve always seen the best in people, like I was walking around holding up a mirror so they could glimpse a different perspective of themselves.
Before I go, I want to say this to you reading: you don’t have to perform your knowing to prove it. You don’t have to cross your own boundaries to prove what you feel. And you don’t have to name it perfectly for it to be real. If your gift feels quiet, listen closer. If it’s loud, slow down. If your mind demands evidence, let it — but don’t let scepticism become another way to abandon yourself.
I spent years holding up mirrors for everyone else. The real shift was the day I stopped long enough to turn that mirror gently towards me.
