Can I Be Spiritual and Still Ask, “But How Do We Know?”

I grew up in a house where sometimes people just...knew things.

My parents were immigrants from rural Poland, and both of them were very intuitive. It wasn't something we sat around analyzing or trying to explain.

It was just part of life.

My mom might get a bad feeling on a Friday afternoon and tell me I couldn't go out that night.

As a teenager, you can imagine how delighted I was about that.

But why?

“Something's going to happen.”

That was pretty much it.

And sure enough, I'd go back to school on Monday and hear that something had happened. A party got out of hand. The police showed up. Whatever it was, somehow I had been kept out of it.

Did I always graciously appreciate my mother's intuition?

Absolutely not!

I was a teenager.

I rebelled a little (okay, quite a bit :)

But things like that happened often enough that I paid attention.

The Pantry

There's one experience from childhood I've never forgotten.

I was at home with my mom when we heard a noise coming from the pantry.

My mom went to look.

Nothing had fallen. Nothing seemed out of place.

And she simply said:

“Your grandmother just died.”

This was my dad's mother. As far as I knew, there hadn't been some long, dramatic decline that would have made this an obvious conclusion.

A few minutes later, my dad called.

My grandmother had died.

Now, I can hear my science brain asking all kinds of questions about that story.

Was it a coincidence?

Did my mother know something about my grandmother's health that I didn't know as a child?

Have I remembered every detail perfectly after all these years?

Fair questions.

But I also remember being there. Full body goose bumps.

And I remember my mother knowing.

Sometimes, both things get to exist.

Then I Became a Nurse

Maybe that's part of what makes my life such an interesting combination.

I grew up around intuition, and then I went into nursing.

• Science.

• Evidence.

• Assessment.

• Observation.

Learn the physiology. Understand what's happening. Know why you're doing what you're doing.

That part of me is still very much alive.

I love research.

I love information.

I love knowing how things work.

And for a lot of my life, I wanted to be the resource.

I collected education, certifications, and training. If something interested me, I wanted to learn about it.

And then learn some more.

And maybe take another certification - just to be sure.

There's nothing wrong with that. I'm grateful for everything I've learned.

But somewhere along the way, I began to realize that not everything meaningful in my life was going to arrive with a research paper attached to it.

Then There Was Steve

My husband, Steve, was very intuitive, too.

Actually, he was much more visual than I am.

I'm more of a "knower" and "gut feeler".

Steve could see.

There were times he would describe seeing someone who had died as clearly as if that person were standing in the room with us.

I remember wishing I could do that.

His response?

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Apparently seeing dead people standing in your kitchen isn't always as charming as it sounds.

Steve sometimes found those experiences unsettling.

I found them fascinating.

And through him, my own understanding of intuition and whatever may exist beyond what we can physically see continued to open.

Then Steve died unexpectedly before his 53rd birthday.

Something Changed After He Was Gone

September 1st, 2026 marks eleven years since Steve passed on.

Since then, I've had experiences with him that I can't scientifically explain.

One in particular has stayed with me.

I was deeply sad, and I experienced what I would describe as a lucid dream. I was in an ethereal reality...yet fully aware of everything around me.

Steve was there.

And in the way I experienced it, he told me something that made complete sense within my world.

He essentially said:

Barb, you know about heart coherence.

Of course he did.

Even from the other side, Steve knew exactly how to speak my language.

What I understood from the experience was that I was so deep in grief that I couldn't sense him. He described it as though we were at very different energetic places.

I didn't know how to reach where he was.

And he couldn't come all the way to where I was.

He suggested that maybe we could meet somewhere in between.

For me, that meant finding my way into a deeply coherent state.

And there have been times since then when I've done that and felt him.

Sometimes I've experienced what feels like a message.

Sometimes it's simply a sense of his presence.

Can I prove to you that Steve was communicating with me?

No.

Could someone explain it as an experience created by a grieving brain?

Sure.

Maybe they'd be right.

But here's what's changed in me:

I don't need to win that argument anymore.

I Still Ask Questions

Please don't misunderstand.

I haven't abandoned science.

And I certainly haven't abandoned critical thinking.

If somebody makes a big claim about health, healing, energy, essential oils, or just about anything else, there's still a part of me that immediately thinks:

Okay...how do we know that?

I actually love that part of myself.

She's kept me curious.

She's inspired me to learn.

She's helped me separate what I know from what I believe and from what I've personally experienced.

I think those distinctions matter.

But I've stopped believing that science has to validate every meaningful experience before I'm allowed to honor it.

That's different.

Maybe Some Things Get to Be Sacred

I spent a lot of years wanting "answers".

Now I'm becoming much more comfortable with mystery.

Not because I've stopped caring about what's true.

Maybe because my definition of "knowing" has expanded.

There are things we can measure.

There are things we can study.

There are things we're only beginning to understand.

And then there are experiences that simply leave us sitting there thinking:

Well...what the heck was that?

I've learned not to rush so quickly to explain those away.

Maybe there's something beyond what we currently understand.

Maybe consciousness is far more interesting than we realize.

Maybe what I experienced with Steve came entirely from within me.

I don't know.

And strangely enough, I'm okay with that.

Because there's a mystery to life that's so sacred, and sometimes it doesn't need an explanation.

Sometimes it just is.

Science and Mystery Can Sit at the Same Table

At this point in my life, I don't feel a need to choose.

I can be a nurse and believe there are things I can't explain.

I can read the research and listen to my intuition.

I can ask for evidence and still leave room for wonder.

I can say:

“I don't know.”

And I can also say:

“This was real for me.”

Those statements don't cancel each other out.

Maybe that's one of the things maturity and experience have given me.

I don't have to know everything anymore.

I don't have to be the resource for everything.

I don't have to convince you that what I believe is what you should believe.

And I don't need someone else to explain away an experience that holds meaning for me.

Even writing this, I can feel Steve.

I can feel his energy, his sense of humor, his love, and his never-ending support.

It brings tears to my eyes.

Can I explain that?

No.

And I don't need to.

Maybe that's part of his legacy in my life too. He helped me become more comfortable with things I can feel but can't necessarily prove.

So if you've ever had an experience like that, something you felt deeply but couldn't explain to anyone else's satisfaction, maybe you don't have to work so hard to explain it away.

• Stay curious.

• Listen inwardly.

• Stay with your heart.

You don't have to turn your experience into a fact that everyone else must believe.

You don't even have to have the perfect words for it.

Sometimes it's enough to quietly know:

This meant something to me.

I can honor what I know.

I can honor what I don't know.

And every once in a while, I can let something remain sacred.

Turns out, there's something really beautiful about that.