On August 1, 2011, I packed my Toyota Solara and left Bend, Oregon, bound for Colorado with my friend Jason. I had shipped a few of my larger belongings to his home, sold the rest, and fit everything I owned into the car.

The road ahead felt full of possibility — I was excited, curious, and maybe a little nervous.

What would life in Colorado be like?

What kind of energy would Boulder hold?

Jason had offered me a place to stay until I got settled, and while I didn’t know how long that might take, I was grateful for the chance to land somewhere soft.

We arrived at his place on August 3rd. As we unpacked the car, my sense of anticipation shifted. The house was nearly empty.

Jason’s upstairs guest bedroom, which he had promised was “ready and waiting,” yet had no bed, dresser, or shower curtain. His room was the only one with furniture. He casually mentioned that the movers were delayed by a few days — something he’d forgotten to tell me.

I was stunned. That night, I spread my clothes across the floor, pulled my winter coat over myself, and cried as I drifted to sleep.

The next day, I went to IKEA and bought a bed.

That same day, I began searching for a place of my own — and faced another shock: rental prices in Boulder were more than triple what I had paid for a spacious house with a two-car garage and fenced yard back in Bend.

Each day, I explored more and started getting to know the area. However, the living situation quickly wore thin.

The setup Jason had promised felt more like an empty shell—there were no kitchen utensils, pots or pans, or a coffee maker.

I found myself eating every meal out, which added to the stress. Still, I did my best to make it work and settled in as best I could. For now, this was what I had to work with.

After about two weeks, I’d settled into the room pieced together with treasures from local secondhand shops.

Jason’s furnishings finally arrived, though nothing had been unpacked — everything remained in boxes, so if you needed something, you had to go digging.

I bought a desk and set it up on a quiet landing with lots of light, where I kept my business running smoothly without interruption.

Still, I found myself in a quiet reflection, constantly wondering what my next step might be.

I always waited patiently, trusting that things would unfold as they were meant to be. Jason had assured me I could stay as long as needed, and since I was paying rent, I felt no urgency to move on.

However, I had no idea how short-lived that chapter would be.

Not long after, Jason’s friend Randall moved into the other spare room.

He was a kind man — an attorney from Nevada looking for a fresh start — and we shared a comfortable rhythm for a while.

Life felt stable for a few months.

Then, in early December, everything shifted.

Jason didn’t own the house we were living in — his father did- and he lived on the East Coast.

Out of the blue, Jason’s father decided he wanted Randall and me out. Immediately.

Jason told Randall and me that we had to be out by December 24th—Christmas Eve.

Randall quickly found a room with friends in the Boulder area, but my options were slim.

With limited availability during the holidays, I rented an expensive condo in Boulder.

On December 24th, I moved in—not exactly how I imagined spending Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, I spent my first night in the new condo. My only furniture was in the bedroom, and the kitchen held just a few secondhand essentials I’d picked up. I was exhausted.

As soon as I laid down, I drifted into a deep, heavy sleep. Sometime later, I felt a soft breeze across my face.

Slowly, I opened my eyes — only to realize I was no longer in bed.

I was lying on the floor. Confused, I sat up quickly. That’s when I heard a voice.

“Relax your body. It is time to remember.”

I turned around, but no one was there. I stayed seated on the floor, stunned. Then, a soft light began to take shape from the stillness in front of me. Slowly, it formed the outline of a human figure. The room was quiet. It was Christmas morning.

“Are you ready to remember?” she asked.

“Remember what?” I replied.

“Your gifted Energy. Your Life. The Flow.”

“Energy, life, flow…? What does that mean?”

“Yes. We have much work ahead, don’t we?” Her voice was calm and gentle.

“What work? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“You will remember. You are a Healer. You will be healing those who need it. This is who you are. You must remember.”

“Where am I?”

“That’s not important right now. What matters is this: you must remain silent about this journey until it is time to share. You may speak of it to no one. Do you understand?”

“Yes… But why?”

“That, too, will become clear.”

“Is this an out-of-body experience? It doesn’t feel like I’ve left my body. It feels… real.”

“You are both physical and in your second soulful body. The other body still sleeps on your bed.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Too many questions. Now, you must learn. Your Energy. Your Life. The Flow. Wait here. I will return.”

And with that, she was gone.

I sat briefly in the quiet, the air still charged with something I couldn’t name. Unsure of what to do, I got up, walked to the kitchen, and started making coffee.

Suddenly, a jolt of electric energy surged through my body — sharp, immediate, and undeniable.

I woke with a start, back in my bed. Still processing what had happened, I got up and made breakfast.

The rest of the day was spent settling in: arranging what little I had, unpacking boxes, and browsing online for a couch, a rug, and a few other basics to make the space feel like home.

There was a quiet stillness to everything, both inside and out.

Later that morning, I stepped out for a walk around the condo complex.

It was Christmas Day, and the world felt empty — not a soul in sight.

I wandered until I came to a small park nestled in the middle of the complex. I found a bench, sat down, and let myself sink into the stillness.

What now? I wondered.

I closed my eyes and sat silently, letting the question hang in the air.

A few minutes passed.

Then I heard a low humming, a faint buzzing that vibrated from the earth’s center. I opened my eyes.

And there he was — just a few feet away.

He stood tall, cloaked in a flowing white robe, a vibrant scarf of many colors cascading from his shoulders.

He radiated a calm, steady presence — something otherworldly, yet deeply familiar.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came. Then, without moving his lips, I heard his voice clearly in my mind.

“Go to your car. Take a drive.”

And just like that, he was gone. His presence vanished, and with it, the warmth-filled air. A sudden chill swept over me, and I realized how cold it had become.

Sitting in my car — now a Toyota RAV4 — I realized I had no idea where to go.

Back in Oregon, I would’ve instinctively driven to a body of water, a place that always brought me peace. But here in Colorado, I didn’t know where anything like that existed.

No lakes, no rivers — at least none I was aware of.

After sitting there for a few minutes, aimlessly turning the thought over, I decided against the drive. Instead, I returned inside, made some hot chocolate, and started a fire in the fireplace.

The silence of the condo wrapped around me.

Aside from Jason, I didn’t know anyone in Colorado, and things between us still felt strained. I was hurt and unsettled by how the move had unfolded. We met occasionally for lunch, having pleasant but cautious conversations, neither of us quite saying what needed to be said.

Then, during the first week of January, I got a call from a potential client in Kentucky. He wanted to fly in and meet me at my office.

But my “office” was my condo, and inviting him there wasn’t right.

So, I rented a small office space in downtown Boulder for the day.

We met and talked, and by the end, he had become a client, handing me a check for $9,000.

My business began to grow steadily, and I was finally able to start saving money.

In hindsight, moving to Colorado turned out to be one of the best decisions I could’ve made—not just for my career but also for my spiritual path.

It marked the beginning of a new chapter, one that unfolded with unexpected—and often astonishing—results.