Ch. 8- What is Intuition? The Call to the Colorado Mountains After Lish’s Passing.

After everything—Elisha, Vipassana, Hawaii—Colorado arrived in my life in the most blessed, quiet way.

You know when people say, “I always knew”? I used to hear that and feel so fucking frustrated—because I didn’t know. I didn’t know where I wanted to live. I didn’t know where I wanted to grow my life. I felt lost and confused for a long time.

I left everything again. Another partner. Another place. Friends fell away. I just wanted to go home—except I didn’t know where home was.

Hawaii was meant to happen. It gave me space to heal, to feel, to slow down enough to finally hear what had always been whispering in the background of my life: Colorado.

I didn’t “know” it then. But looking back, I always did.

Intuition is strange. It doesn’t work like thoughts do. It has no agenda. It often makes zero mental sense. It’s not logical—it’s a feeling, an inner knowing. And sometimes it goes against everything you’ve been taught: your parents’ expectations, the life you built, the identity you’ve worn.

Listening to intuition can be terrifying.

For years, I watched spiritual videos, read endless books, tried to figure out the right choice. Eventually, I realized I had to let go of right and wrong altogether and learn how to feel. All along, my heart was speaking clearly: travel, move, don’t stay, this isn’t love—this is comfort or lust.

I felt it in my body more than my thoughts. A quiet discomfort. A subtle “no.”

But instead of listening, I blamed myself. I gaslit myself into staying—in places, in relationships—because I thought I was the problem. Looking back, I wasn’t wrong or broken. I was meant to leave. I was meant to travel. I was meant to evolve. Even the stalling was part of it.

The longer I ignored that inner knowing, the louder the conflict became. My ego loved the chaos. It bullied me when I was split in two. I felt like I was lying to myself—and by not listening, hurting others too.

I was scared.
Scared to break hearts.
Scared I’d never find love again.
Scared I’d end up homeless.
Scared I’d lose all my money (I did—and I’m still here).
Scared I’d go insane, get sick, or die while traveling.

But I did it anyway.

I took time alone to listen. I realized no one could give me the answers—not teachers, not books, not gurus. Intuition is personal. It’s shaped by your nervous system, your history, your karma, your healing. No one can map your path for you.

In the Western world, we don’t prioritize intuition. We often mistake ego for intuition—the ego is clever, it will even masquerade as a “quiet inner voice” to protect its structure. But with patience and repeated listening, the difference becomes clearer. It is a skill. And it does get easier.

It was the most challenging thing I’ve ever done. It caused deep internal conflict and depression. But now, after following some enormous heart-pulls, it makes sense. It feels easier. My decisions feel aligned. I feel like I’m choosing from my heart—not fear.

So how does this all tie back to Colorado?

Looking back, the mountains were always calling me.

I painted them. I hiked them back in Connecticut. I bought mountain jewelry. Elisha and I bonded deeply in the mountains—standing at summits in silence. We climbed Mt. Washington, I trekked Machu Picchu, and touched glaciers.

There was something about mountains—their stillness paired with immense power. Massive, unmoving, gentle, silent. I remember wanting Colorado but choosing California first, almost as if I needed to “get it out of my system.”

And here’s the paradox: Colorado was always the more fitting answer—but the so-called detours weren’t mistakes. There are no real errors. What feels like straying from the path is often what builds the path. Even rock bottom can be the thing that evolves someone into a healer.

The universe is intelligent. Think about it—we’re floating on a rock in space, made of DNA and cells, consciousness and mystery. You don’t think life knows what it’s doing? Don’t let the ego—built from fear and desire—convince you it’s smarter than creation itself.

The mountains had been calling me my entire life.

I cried because I finally saw it: how everything had happened to bring me here. Not because it was easy—but because it was honest. I didn’t ask for heartbreak. I didn’t ask to lose my friend. But those losses deepened me. They taught me to let go. To stop fighting life.

Mother Earth does what she does. I’m here to listen.

Heart-aligned desires—when they’re not rooted in ego—do get fulfilled. Not gently. Not cleanly. But truthfully. Ego desires sometimes get fulfilled too… usually as a be careful what you wish for lesson.

My resistance created suffering. Things were being ripped away, and I tried desperately to glue my old world back together. But life’s will is bigger than our personal plans. Like a wave—it moves whether you’re ready or not.

I had to stop analyzing my pain and simply feel it. Every time I demanded a reason for my sadness, I suffered more. Eventually, I gave up. I let myself be messy. Many times.

Not everyone needs to change their entire life. But something does need to change. Either you elevate your consciousness and see your life clearly—or you change the life itself.

I don’t know why the universe wanted me here. I just know that when I look at a mountain, I feel my spirit. I feel peace. I feel home.

I don’t know the next step.
I only know now.

And that’s enough.

It was the call to come home.

I spent the summer of 2024 in Colorado, living in an old, beaten-down trailer for a “farm volunteer trade”. This was my way of traveling now for food and stay. When I arrived, I was greeted by a group of farmer boys and men smoking cigarettes and drinking Modelos. I remember thinking, What did I get myself into now?

I stepped into the musty, moldy trailer and immediately thought of Ram Dass, who once said, “If I’m not at home everywhere I go, then I have a real problem.” So over the next week, I gathered plants, used what I had, and slowly transformed the space into something cozy. Everyone joked that I nearly burned the place down—but I realized something important: I had learned how to make anywhere feel like home.

By then, I had become a traveler. Ready for this kind of life. Nomadic in a way I’d never been before.

I cooked in an outdoor kitchen, made friends with the boys, loved the farmer family’s kids, and genuinely made the best of it. It was a dry town where the desert met the mountains, and I loved the strange beauty of its microclimate. It was nothing like Hawaii—and that contrast taught me something. Every place has its own rhythm, its own culture, its own climate. I loved learning them.

I farmed more—carrots, beets, onions—and every Friday we processed everything for the farmers market.

I was happy there.

But I wasn’t ready to be done traveling.

I left my things behind for the winter and decided to go—across the world. Eight countries in four months while the farm shut down for the season. I had very little money, but I knew I had to make it work somehow.

And so I went.