Divine Guidance

Around September 2024, when I started vibing and didn’t really know what was going on, I could feel that my soul was exposed.

I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t want to be around people or their energy. I could feel it—whether it was good or bad—and it wasn’t something I could control. It was freaking me out.

My girlfriend Jen had her 50th birthday in November. She moved to Campbellford, bought a house, and invited a few people over for a girls' weekend. In the beginning, when she spoke about it, I was all excited to go. Then, when it came time to actually go—I started tripping.

I started thinking about her sister, and other people I didn’t even know—that I’d be stuck there for the weekend with all these strangers, vibing off the charts. I didn’t want to go.

I remember saying, “I can see souls.” Hahaha! Must’ve sounded fuckin’ bananas!

What it actually is—I have a kind of clarity that allows me to see beyond what’s visible. A deeper sense, also known as heightened awareness. And with this clarity, I don’t just see people—I perceive their energy.

It’s as if the truth of them stands just outside the visible. I see people’s truth, even if they don’t speak it. I can’t pretend I don’t.

That episode I had in the hospital—it changed my life. I was told to make a decision, and I did. I chose life.

I’m well aware that had I chosen the alternative, those people I saw—on each side of me—they weren’t just hanging out. They were ready, waiting, there to walk me home. But we all have free will, and I chose life—to stay.

Spirit granted me a second life—one without all the darkness, pain, and suffering. My soul was rinsed clean that night.

After getting an up-close and personal look at all the pain and darkness I had endured throughout my lifetime—when my PTSD erupted—I was scared as hell.

I had an empty soul, and I knew, even without fully understanding what happened, that I needed help. I was in a fucked-up state for months. My soul was raw, so I sought out guidance.

That’s when Anishnawbe came in. They embraced me with open arms, as if they could see me, my soul—how I had traveled outside my body, how raw I really was, and that I was in desperate need of guidance. 

I started working with a traditional counselor and a healer. They taught me how to embrace Spirit—offering new perspectives and providing tools to help me navigate my mental state moving forward.

I would go home and faithfully exercise exactly what I was taught with my entire being. I was 1000% immersed in the healing practices they shared with me.

I was twenty months into my healing journey. The more I wrote, the more I vibed. The more I wondered what this was all about.

The feeling I had when I started writing was unlike anything I’d ever felt before—it was like a presence within that nothing could touch.

From September to December, I can’t even describe the vibrant surge I had inside. I was functioning on a frequency I had never experienced before. So many things were happening to me—all at once.

There was a rush of knowledge—like everything I had learned throughout my life, all the good stuff that had been lying dormant in silence—suddenly rose up.

There was so much going on—so much noise. I remember thinking back in February how I wished I could go back to that time. I wished it hadn’t all hit at once so I could’ve focused more on what was really happening with my soul, and with the writing.

Something was happening there, beneath it all—as I was effortlessly creating this blog and everything that came with it.

It’s almost like—the noise all around—was meant to happen. Like it was there to keep me from zooming in or going too deep into analyzing what was happening with me spiritually.

It was next-level transformation—full force.

Whatever transpired during those four months was significant—probably the most important four months of my entire life.

I’ll never forget November 21, 2024. Something came over me. I felt this overwhelming, white, fire rising inside me—and I just broke down crying. In that moment, I knew exactly what was happening with me.

I knew that Spirit had given me a task: to tell my story, and to create a safe place for others to tell theirs—to help people. And I had been given the knowledge and the tools to do just that.

And in that moment, I had never felt more seen, or more loved, in my entire life. I started bawling. A different kind of cry.

Trent came out—it was early evening, just starting to get dark—and he was looking at me, almost staring, from the kitchen. I explained to him exactly what was happening with me, what this was all about, as he had been watching me do all this stuff I had never done before over the past few months.

I told him to listen, and he stood there quietly as I shared my calling with him. He just stood there. Didn’t mock me. Just watched, as if I were illuminated. I can still see, vividly, in my mind the expressionless look on his face.

During my transformation—from September to November—it sort of felt like I was moving into a new house. Empty. Everything was bright, fresh, clean, new, exciting… and unknown. What’s in the yard? What’s in the basement? What’s over there?

Then, a month and a half—two months in—you start getting comfortable in your new home. That’s sort of what it felt like for me.

Once I realized what was going on, the vibing wasn’t so intense.

That new home (me) had peace. That new home had quiet.

I experience that—until December, when I went batshit crazy.

Everything amped up and the scales tipped.

Luckily, I caught myself. I reeled myself back in without even thinking about it—I just knew that the negative distractions that had been going on around me, swaying me from my path, weren’t going to continue.

Boundaries came into play, and the peace—the quietness—came right back.

I had surgery coming up in four months. I almost fucking died. I needed to keep my head right. That was my only focus. I pulled myself back in.

I was back on track.

In February 2022, I went to The Slabs in California also known as Salvation Mountain to visit my uncle Randy. He had two buddies there at his little campsite—Ralph and Bob. Bob, from New Orleans, passed away about a year or so later, but not before sharing a story with me.

Do you know where you are?

Bob and I hit it off. Randy’s buddies had no fucking clue who or what was coming to town—Hahaha! Bob was sweet, kind, and full of good intentions.

Not long after I arrived, he handed me a book to read. He told me I should read it and tried to explain what it was about, but I had just gotten there and wasn’t really listening. He was kind of in my face with that book—insistent that I read it—he wasn’t letting up, so I took it from him.

It’s like he saw me—right through me.

Inside, there was a handwritten letter from his nephew. I was intrigued. He told me his nephew had written the book, that he was adopted, and had always been searching for his mother—who was Bob’s sister.

I was lying around, on my own slab, suntanning. I loved The Slabs—such a cool vibe being off-grid. I had my little setup and cracked open a very worn-out paperback, Dear Stephen Michael's Mother—Kevin Barhydt.

Once I started reading—I couldn’t stop. Bob didn’t say much more about the book, other than that it was written by his nephew, who had been adopted and was searching for his mother. It didn’t sound like a story I would be interested in or could resonate with—or so I thought.

Jaye’s Slab—Ya I can roll like that!

I read the letter first, but I didn’t really get the full weight of it, and I wish I’d had the chance to read it again after finishing the book—but that never happened. The book opens in the present day, which at the time was 2007.

Just before the story begins, three words are written: Deep breath in.

It starts by describing his blood family—Bob included—and the first page ends with the line: I have never met these people.

The second page starts with a date: June 1962. Kevin begins by explaining his past life, living with his adoptive parents. The book shifts between present day and the past, unfolding the gripping story of his life—

“A life marked by addiction: the cravings, the bad decisions, the withdrawal, the endless drug-seeking, and the general chaos of living in desperation and despair.”

"The search for family, the need for connection, for finding faces that mirror your own—that part felt deeply familiar to me. It is not simply a story of redemption; it’s a vivid tale of the fall.” Oof!

That right there—those are the words you see when you open the cover. Why I thought I wouldn’t be able to resonate with that book is beyond me.

Kevin’s story—his written words—went right through me, straight to my soul. I could feel his pain moving through my body—the pain of being lost on the streets, fighting for another hit—survival, sexual abuse and the need for a connection with his lost identity. While delving deeper and deeper into darkness.

I didn’t finish the book in The Slabs. I had maybe a chapter or two left—Bob wasn’t giving me that book, so I bought it as soon as I got home—because, that story wasn’t leaving me. I finished it, and I was hungry for the letter Kevin had written to his uncle.

I have goosebumps everywhere right now, writing this. 

Kevin never got to meet Bob in person, but he eventually uncovered the story with his kin and sent that letter, along with the book, to Bob.

Bob was so proud of that book, of that story, and of his nephew—and rightfully so.

When I finished the book, I felt this intense need to connect with Kevin. I wanted to tell him how deeply I felt his words and that I had hung out with his Uncle Bob from New Orleans—who was cool as fuck!

Bob wouldn’t have let me leave The Slabs without saying it the right way, too. Nawlin’s.

Kevin and I became acquainted on Instagram. I reached out with a few words—about his book and about Bob.

It felt strange to me that I had read his book—deeply resonated with it, and had just spent a week with Bob—yet he and Kevin had never hung out or even met. It was like I felt compelled to bridge the gap.

Bob passed away a year later at 62. Bob lived off-grid, and I was pretty sure Kevin didn’t know, so I reached out to tell him Bob had passed. I shared a story or two and sent him a couple pics of the shirts Bob had given me.

RIP Bob <3

Kevin replied, “Yep, those are the shirts he would love.” Kevin shared with me that Bob was his deepest family memory.

Recently—months after starting the blog and writing out a huge chunk of my own story—I realized I was writing in the same way Kevin did: shifting between present day and the past.

That realization hit me hard! I had never written before—not like this!

I wrote to Kevin, realizing in that moment just how soulfully his book had affected me. I shared that with him—and that I felt a connection, like this had all played out exactly as it was meant to, as if it had been scripted.

Kevin wrote me back—just this morning, actually, as I was writing this fucking piece!

I had shared my blog with him from the very beginning. I just thought maybe he’d be interested, I didn’t know at the time why I felt the need to share with him my blog. I know now.

I messaged Kevin a couple of times during those four months. Just to ask a quick question here and there, trying to get some clarity on what I was going through—the transition.

I was spiritually directed toward Kevin. I was desperate to connect with someone outside of Anishnawbe who could truly understand me—someone who could grasp what was happening within me.

After reading his book, after reaching out, and after seeing the life he’s living now, I knew he had gone through this.

I messaged him in January and flat out said, “This is a rebirth, isn’t it?”

His reply: “Yep, sure is.”

The book, The Slabs, Bob, and connecting with Kevin—it was all divine guidance.