There’s a strange shame that comes with being highly intuitive in a world built on linear logic. It’s like holding a compass that points to feelings, frequencies, and subtle undercurrents—while society demands a GPS with a 401(k), a five-year plan, and a mortgage.

And here I am, in my thirties, deeply intuitive, energetically attuned—and still struggling to “thrive” in the ways we’re told count.

Let me be real:

Sometimes, being this intuitive feels like both a blessing and a curse.

I can walk into a room and feel what isn’t being said—the tension behind a smile, the heaviness left by old arguments, the energetic mismatch between someone’s words and their truth. I sense when something’s off before it happens, and I can’t not notice.

Then come the downloads—sudden, undeniable hits of insight. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes mid-shower or while staring out the window. Clear, full-body knowing with no rational explanation.

The synchronicities trail behind—repeating numbers, a hawk overhead after asking for a sign, hearing a stranger echo your private thoughts. The kind of magic that affirms you’re tapped in, even if no one else sees it.

And then there’s the knowing—deep, quiet, and unshakable.

When someone’s not being honest.

When something is ending.

When you just feel what’s coming next.

I live in constant energetic reception. It’s beautiful—and overwhelming. And while it offers deep connection and insight, it doesn’t exactly make life easier. It doesn’t guarantee success or stability. It’s hard to explain to people who’ve never had to recover from a grocery store trip because the energy was just too much.

And yet, the world has expectations.

“If you’re so intuitive, why can’t you manifest wealth?”

“Shouldn’t you know what to do with your life by now?”

“Why are you still struggling, if you’re connected to Spirit?”

These questions echo inside me like quiet accusations. And even though I know they come from misunderstanding, they still stir up shame. It feels like I’m failing the gift. Or worse—like I’m just failing.

But here’s the deeper truth I keep circling back to:

Being intuitive doesn’t mean I’ll succeed in the traditional sense.

It means I feel the world differently. I move differently. I need slowness, space, safety. I can’t fake alignment. I break down in environments that don’t honor my nervous system. I wasn’t built to grind—I was built to feel.

And that is sacred.

I’m learning that sensitivity isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom in another form.

That just because my success isn’t loud or linear doesn’t mean I’m lost.

That maybe my existence isn’t about proving myself in the eyes of a world that was never made for people like me.

Maybe I’m here to soften something. To anchor something. To reflect something back to others who are quietly unraveling under the weight of being “too much” or “not enough.”

To all the intuitives who feel like they’re behind, broken, or failing—

You’re not.

You’re just doing life in a frequency that asks for something softer.

Slower.

Truer.

And that is not a failure. That is a quiet kind of courage.