I have always been someone who feels first and explains later.
Even as a child, I could sit alone for long stretches of time without boredom. I noticed small details — the movement of clouds, the patterns in leaves, the quiet attention in animals’ eyes. These moments did not feel special at the time. They simply felt natural.
I did not need much to feel content.
Being present was enough.
As I grew older, this way of being became less visible. Not because it disappeared, but because it was inconvenient. In social and professional environments, intuition does not always translate well. Logic is easier to justify. Structure is easier to explain. So, like many people, I learned to soften the parts of myself that did not fit cleanly into conversation or career.
I became more outward-facing. More responsive. More careful.
But when I was alone, nothing felt missing. I was calm. I was grounded. I did not measure myself against others. I did not need validation to feel whole.
There was always an inner signal guiding me — subtle, but consistent. I did not always follow it. Sometimes I chose to trust people even when something felt off. I wanted to believe in sincerity. I wanted connection to be real. When disappointment followed, it was painful, but it never hardened me.
What I learned was not to distrust my intuition, but to observe it — even when I chose not to follow it.
This pattern repeated quietly.
I noticed the early signals, and still chose to wait.
I sensed misalignment, and told myself time would soften it.
What I was learning, slowly, was how easily patience can become a way of leaving oneself behind.
Over time, the patterns became undeniable.
And gradually, my ego learned to surrender, to trust the flow, and to let feeling lead where control could not.
When life slowed dramatically during the pandemic, these patterns became impossible to ignore.
Living alone, without distraction or structure imposed from the outside, I had to sit with myself fully. I returned to practices that required no performance: meditation, simple rituals, time with objects and tools that grounded my attention rather than stimulated it. Crystals became a way to anchor presence. Tarot became a language — not for prediction, but for reflection.
I did not use these practices to escape reality.
I used them to face it without noise.
At that time, grief for my father was still locked inside my body. I had tried to process it in conventional ways — through analysis, guidance, and therapy. None of it reached the place where the pain was stored. It was only in sustained stillness that something began to shift.
During this period, I worked with teachers who understood the body and the nervous system in ways language could not fully reach.
Their role was not to give answers, but to help release what had been held too tightly for too long.
The release was gradual.
Tears came without narrative.
Emotion surfaced without explanation.
As my body softened, something else returned: trust in my own inner responses. At first, it was faint. Years of adaptation had trained me to override it. Like a muscle unused for too long, intuition needed patience to rebuild.
So I practiced listening — not dramatically, not mystically, but practically.
I paid attention to consequences.
When I ignored what felt true, things became heavier. Decisions required more effort. Relationships demanded explanation. My body tightened. When I followed what felt aligned, life did not become easier — but it became simpler. Fewer justifications were needed. Fewer stories had to be maintained.
This distinction mattered.
Listening did not mean saying yes to comfort. Often, it meant choosing paths that made little sense to others. Closing a company without a new plan. Moving to a city where I knew no one. Allowing my life to shrink in visible ways — fewer titles, fewer certainties, fewer external markers of progress.
From the outside, it may have looked like retreat.
From the inside, it felt like accuracy.
What followed was not chaos, but a different order.
Work came through proximity rather than pursuit. I baked not to build a brand, but to stay present. I volunteered not to network, but to belong to a rhythm larger than myself. I consulted where my experience was genuinely needed. I worked with crystals because they had already supported me through listening — not as symbols, but as anchors that kept me grounded when my mind wanted certainty too quickly.
None of these roles explained my life in a linear way.
But each one reduced friction.
Over time, a pattern emerged — not through intention, but through consistency. When I stayed honest with what felt true, decisions required less force. When I stopped justifying myself, the right connections arrived with less effort. When I trusted my inner responses, my external life stopped pulling me in opposite directions.
The High Priestess does not offer answers.
She offers discernment.
Not certainty — but a reliable internal reference point.
This chapter is not about spirituality as identity.
It is about learning how to live without betraying your own signals — even when doing so costs you speed, explanation, or approval.
Many people sense truth and talk themselves out of it.
Many people feel deeply and override themselves anyway.
Learning to trust what I could not immediately prove did not make me special. It made me responsible. It required me to stand by my choices without constant reassurance.
What it gave me in return was a quieter form of confidence.
Not the kind that convinces others —
but the kind that no longer needs to.
— Yanting
