Grief Cracked Me Open

What Poured Through Is My Proof

Where’s the proof?

That’s the refrain hurled whenever I write about the metaphysical—the soul, the unseen, the intelligence that moves through synchronicity, dream, intuition, and love. The demand is almost always framed as if reality only counts when it’s repeatable under fluorescent lights, with clipboards watching. But four and a half years ago, when my thirty-two-year-old son died, the membrane between worlds thinned—and what rushed in was not theory, but encounter. Not argument, but actuality. Since then, I have been living in the proof they say doesn’t exist.

I see it. I feel it. I understand it—not because I need to, but because it simply is.

What happened to me

Grief didn’t just break my heart; it rearranged my ontology (the branch of metaphysics dealing with the nature of being). The day my son left this world, I was gifted—yes, gifted-with a spiritual awakening. The ordinary scaffolding of my life collapsed, and with it, the narrow definitions of what counts as “real.” The air became denser with meaning. Dreams were no longer just neurological noise but bridges.

Coincidences stopped being cute and started being coordinates. Inner guidance moved from a whisper to a current. I didn’t go looking for a metaphysical worldview to comfort me; it came, unbidden, insistent, undeniable.

“Proof,” redefined

The skeptics want instruments, datasets, and double-blind trials. Fine—for the measurable. But not all truths submit to a microscope. Love doesn’t. Beauty doesn’t. Grief doesn’t. Consciousness doesn’t.

The question “Where’s the proof?” assumes that only one epistemology—the laboratory—is legitimate. Yet even science, at its bleeding edge, admits the primacy of experience in discovery. Insight precedes method. Intuition precedes measurement. The quantum realm itself laughs at our need for the observer to be irrelevant. He isn’t. Neither am I.

The deniers will keep denying. I will keep living

I don’t mind sincere questions; skepticism can be a sacred guardian of truth. But denial—especially the kind that refuses to sit with mystery, or to risk the vulnerability of inner work—is a cul-de-sac. I won’t be dragged into it. I won’t let the deniers sway me. I won’t shrink my soul to fit a framework designed to exclude it.

The proof that animates my life isn’t performative. It’s relational. It is the way grief became a doorway instead of a dungeon. It is the way guidance arrives when I most need it—precisely and improbably. It is the way love keeps proving itself stronger than absence. You can call that anecdote. I call it data—soul data. And the sample size, across cultures and centuries, is astronomically large.

Two kinds of truth

There are at least two orders of truth:

• Exterior truths: Weights, measures, voltages, velocities. The truths of things.

• Interior truths: Meanings, values, intentions, presence. The truths of persons and souls.

When someone demands exterior proof for an interior truth, what they really want is for the soul to strip naked under a spot light and agree to be less than it is. But the soul is not a specimen. It’s a subject. It speaks in symbol, rhythm, synchronicity, silence, and yes, overwhelming Love. To insist it behave like a rock in a beaker is to misunderstand the experiment.

I am not trying to convert you

I don’t need anyone to believe me. I’m not proselytizing. I’m testifying. This is what happened. This is what keeps happening. And while I cannot hand you my heart on a spreadsheet, I can tell you that the world is thicker with meaning than we dare admit—and that death did not end the conversation. It deepened it.

Four and a half years ago, a door opened through unbearable loss. On the other side, I found a reality that refuses to be reduced. That is my proof.

And I’m done asking for permission to live by it.