10/11/2025
My mom has told me stories about moments I can’t remember, things that happened before I even understood what intuition was. She says that after we lost my sister, Cassie May, I was sitting quietly on the couch one day when something shifted in the air around me. I looked up with calm eyes, the kind that only children have, and whispered, “She’s ok.”
My mom told me she froze …that she felt something in the room too. She asked, “What did you say?” and I answered softly, “She wants me to tell you she’s ok.” I don’t remember speaking those words, but hearing her tell it now gives me chills. It feels like something that’s always been a part of me… that connection to the unseen, the comforting kind of knowing that doesn’t come from the mind but from the heart.
She’s also told me about my “imaginary” friend, Johnny. Apparently, I’d talk to him for hours as a little girl. I’d set places for him at the table, laugh like he’d said something funny, or sit in silence with him beside me. My mom used to think it was just imagination, until she started noticing the way I’d pause mid-conversation, tilt my head slightly, like I was listening to someone who wasn’t there. I have no memory of him now, but I’ve always carried the feeling that I was never really alone.
And then there was the pencil sharpener … the one that flew across my room. I don’t remember it happening, but Mom said I came out pale and shaken, my small hands trembling. She said I told her, “Something touched me.” Even hearing that story as an adult, I can still feel the truth in it. That sense that energy leaves fingerprint… and that some spaces hold their own stories.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt more than I’ve seen. I read energy the way some people read faces. I can sense emotions before words are spoken, and sometimes I know when a room still remembers what’s been lost inside it. I used to think that made me different … now I know it makes me tuned in.
My mom has always had her own intuitive moments, and her mother before her. It feels like a gift passed through generations, a quiet awareness running in our bloodline. I’ve learned to embrace it … to listen to the subtle shifts, the whispers, and the warmth that rises in my chest when something unseen draws close.
That’s what Boo Baddies means to me. It’s not just ghost hunting … it’s connection. It’s exploring the energies that linger, the emotions that stay, and the stories that still want to be told. For me, this work is personal. It’s not about chasing shadows, it’s about honoring them.
Because maybe I don’t remember those moments from childhood…
but I’ve been living their echo ever since.
