How a Psychic Secretary Changed Everything

Here is something nobody tells you about spiritual awakening: it does not look like what you think. It does not look like a monastery or a meditation cushion or a retreat in Bali. For me, it looked like comedy clubs at two in the morning, touring across the country, making rooms full of strangers laugh until they cried, while I was secretly reading the Bhagavad Gita in the green room and studying with masters nobody in the audience had ever heard of.

I became a comedian because I was good at it. Five-time EMMY Award-winning writer. Children's television host. The whole trajectory. But the comedy was never the destination. It was the cover story. While the entertainment industry saw a performer, I was crossing continents looking for anyone who had actually woken up. Not people who talked about awakening. People who had done it.

I sat with teachers in India who had not spoken in twenty years. I studied with Native American elders who taught me ceremonies that have been practiced for thousands of years. I learned Transcendental Meditation, the Sedona Method, Ho'oponopono. I studied Advaita Vedanta until the words stopped being philosophy and started being experience. I was not collecting spiritual experiences like souvenirs. I was looking for the one thing that would make the noise stop and the truth start.

During those years, I built companies and lost them. I fell in love with a woman named Margie and watched that relationship teach me everything I thought I already knew about attachment, projection, and the difference between loving someone and needing them to complete you. That failure, and it was a failure, became one of the most important teachings of my life. Not because I learned some tidy lesson. Because it burned away a version of me that needed to die so the real work could begin.

I do not romanticize that pain. It was ugly. It was years of grief that no amount of meditation could shortcut. And that is exactly the point I make to every client who sits across from me now: you cannot bypass the fire. You can only walk through it. The spiritual teachers who tell you otherwise are selling you a lie wrapped in lavender.

There is a place in the Pecos Wilderness of New Mexico where the trees thin out and the sky opens up and you realize, with a clarity that hits like a fist, that you are completely alone with whatever you have been running from. I went there on a vision quest. Not the weekend retreat version. The real thing. Days alone in the wilderness with nothing but a sleeping bag, water, and every unresolved piece of my psyche screaming for attention.

On the third night, a bear came. Not a metaphorical bear. A real, breathing, enormous bear that stood fifteen feet from where I was sitting and looked at me with eyes that held no malice and no mercy. Just presence. Pure, animal, undeniable presence. In that moment, every spiritual concept I had ever studied became irrelevant. There was no Advaita Vedanta. There was no Buddhism. There was no technique. There was me, and there was a bear, and there was the raw fact of being alive.

The bear left. I did not sleep. And something in me that had been holding on for decades finally let go. Not because I chose to. Because the wilderness does not negotiate with your ego. It simply waits until your ego runs out of material.

Months later, I nearly died in an ice stream. Hypothermia. The kind where your body stops shivering because it has given up trying to warm itself and starts shutting down systems instead. I was in the water longer than I should have been, and in those minutes, something happened that I have never been able to fully articulate. The boundary between my body and the water dissolved. Not poetically. Literally. I could not tell where I ended and the stream began.

I did not see a white light. I did not have a life review. What I had was an experience of such complete dissolution that when I was pulled out and my body started working again, I understood, in my bones, not my mind, that the self I had been protecting my entire life was a fiction. A useful fiction. A necessary fiction. But a fiction nonetheless. And the thing underneath it, the thing that had been there before the fiction started and would be there after it ended, that thing was what every master I had ever studied with was pointing toward.

Over the past fifteen years, I have performed more than ten thousand intuitive readings. Ten thousand times, someone has sat across from me, physically or through a screen, and opened the most vulnerable parts of their life. Their marriages. Their addictions. Their childhood wounds. Their terror of dying without having truly lived. Their secret belief that they are fundamentally broken and that no amount of therapy, meditation, or prayer will fix them.

Every single one of them was wrong about that last part. Not a single person who has sat with me was broken. Buried, yes. Compressed under layers of ancestral karma, cultural conditioning, relational trauma, and their own accumulated patterns. But broken? Never. Not once. The light was always there. It was just covered in so much debris that they had forgotten it existed.

My job is not to heal people. My job is to show them where the debris is, hand them the tools to clear it, and then get out of the way while they do the work. I am not a guru. I am not a savior. I am a clairvoyant with thirty years of training, an EMMY-winning ability to communicate complex truths in ways that land, and an absolute refusal to let anyone stay comfortable in their suffering when liberation is available.

That is what I do. That is what all of this, the Xerox cubicle, the comedy stages, the ashrams, the wilderness, the ice stream, the bear, Amma, the cards, the oracle, the books, that is what all of it was preparing me for. Not a career. A calling. The kind you cannot refuse because it is not yours to refuse. It belongs to something larger, and you are simply the vehicle it chose.