
There's a particular kind of moment that stops you mid-step.
The TV turns on by itself. The radio starts playing in an empty room. The light on your bedroom wall glows softly — but you didn't switch it on. You reach to unplug your phone and a spark jumps from the charging port.
You look around. Nothing is visibly wrong. No one is there.
Did that just happen?
If you're in the middle of a spiritual awakening — or wondering if you might be — and you've had moments like these, you're not imagining things. You're not losing your mind. And you're not alone.
When I was in rehab recovering from a significant medical event, strange things began to happen around me. Not once. Not twice. My television turned on by itself repeatedly — enough times that I eventually went to ask the cleaning staff if anyone had ever reported something like this. I even asked whether someone might have died in the room. Whether the room could be haunted.
They reassured me that wasn't the case. No complaints on record. No history like that.
So I went to the reception desk. Same answer.
No explanation. No faulty wiring on file. Just: this has never been reported before.
I noticed it was worth paying attention to.
Once I came home, it continued. The radio switched on by itself. The light in my bedroom glowed without being turned on. And one evening, as I reached to unplug my phone from its charger, a spark jumped from the slot.
Each time, my response was the same: amazement. Curiosity. A kind of electric excitement — if you'll forgive the word.
I wasn't frightened. I was paying attention.
I didn't arrive at a single tidy explanation. What I did was notice that these events were happening at the same time as other things I couldn't explain — experiences that, taken together, pointed toward something larger than ordinary life. I placed the electrical phenomena under the same umbrella as everything else: awakening.
Not because I dismissed the need for an explanation. I looked for one. I asked questions. I followed the practical path first.
But when no ordinary explanation appeared, I let myself consider an extraordinary one.
Not all of the inexplicable sensations during this time were dramatic. Some were quiet. Almost tender.
When I began meditating — shortly after returning home from rehab — I started noticing something during my sessions: a feathery, tickling sensation on my face. Light. Unmistakable. Not imagined.
I sat with it. And then I began to notice something more specific.
When I turned my focus toward my grandmother during meditation, the sensation intensified at my temples. And I remembered — as clearly as if it were happening again — that when I was a child, she used to massage my temples as I was falling asleep.
When I focused on my aunt, my grandmother's daughter, I felt the sensation brush the tip of my nose. And I remembered her childhood game — pretending to snap my nose off between her fingers, then holding out her thumb as if she'd taken it.
These weren't vague impressions. They were precise. Located. Linked to specific memories I hadn't thought about in years.
I still believe, to this day, that our loved ones can reach us — that they find ways to make themselves known through sensation, through the body, through what we might call the electromagnetic field. I hold that belief not as something abstract, but as something I have felt in my own temples, at the tip of my own nose.
Here's what I've come to understand about moments like these — and what I'd want you to know if you're in the middle of one.
Meaning doesn't always arrive immediately.
Sometimes you experience something and it makes no sense in the present moment. But then you draw inward — in meditation, in stillness, in a quiet walk — and something surfaces from the past. A memory. A gesture. A person. And suddenly the present experience has a language it didn't have before.
It can also work in the other direction. You experience something now that seems inexplicable, and it only becomes clear later — when a future event gives it context you didn't have yet.
The invitation isn't to force an explanation. It's to stay open to the possibility that meaning is already there, moving toward you — from the past, or from what hasn't happened yet.
If your lights are flickering. If your devices are behaving strangely. If something keeps happening that no one can explain and you're starting to wonder whether it's connected to everything else you've been experiencing — trust that instinct.
Investigate first, the way I did. Ask the practical questions. Exhaust the ordinary explanations.
And when those run out, consider that you might be in the middle of something extraordinary. Not something to fear. Something to pay attention to.
The beginning of awakening can feel like the world itself is trying to get your attention.
Maybe it is.

Have you had experiences like these — electrical, sensory, or otherwise unexplained? I'd love to hear from you. Reach out through the contact form below.
And if you're looking for a community of others who understand what you're moving through, the Awakened Journey Collective is here for you. You are always welcome.
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