A Welcome Party To Discomfort • My Visit With a Medium

The Gathering

My friend Sofia invited me, along with a handful of her girlfriends, to her home for an evening of connection and individualized readings from a medium. I had no expectations. No firm beliefs. I was simply in it for the adventure, and some good old-fashioned “girl time.” I even put on makeup.

I arrived early. There were snacks. I didn’t know the other women personally, but we all sat on the back deck beneath the sun, chatting about our kids, our gym routines, and whatever else women say to soften the air when meeting each other for the first time. I was second in the queue.

When it was my turn, I ushered myself down into the basement—because of course, this sort of thing happens underground. The medium greeted me with warmth and explained how it all worked. Then, almost like a warning stitched in silk, she said,

“I typically keep things lighthearted… but if you’re open to everything, I can do that.”

I didn’t even blink. “Oh, give me all of it,” I said. “I can handle the dark.”

James L. Maher (My Grandfather)

James L. Maher 1965ish

“There’s someone here,” she began. “And I really like this guy. He’s fun. He feels safe. He’s wearing a top hat. He seems… famous?”

My grandfather. James L. Maher. He was a politician, and the Mayor of the City of Newport in the 1960s.

 “Did he die when you were very young?” she asked. “He keeps saying he wishes he lived longer, so you two could spend time together.”

He did. I barely know him at all—except through photographs and stories.

“He’s saying, ‘Why didn’t you do this sooner?’ Are you some kind of healer?”

I thought of Ocean State Kids. The new mission of supporting neurodivergent children, who are finally seen and celebrated.

“He’s showing me something about art. He says he’s proud of the work you’re doing with children—and to keep going with the paint.”

And just like that, the hair on my arms started conducting electricity. Between the top hat and the nod to our messy paint parties, my emotions rose like a slow tide. 

James with his Children

“He says he’s proud of you. Keep going.”

Let me back up. Two weeks earlier, I met with my Aunt Sam—James’ daughter—to talk about The Maher Center, a nonprofit he founded that supports adults with disabilities. My grandfather James started this, because my aunt Mary  had downs syndrome.  I had never associated with the organization, and was never exposed to it, or had a calling to go. But lately, I’d been wondering if it could become something more—especially for children. I had even asked Sam if I should reach out, wondering if there was space for me in this legacy. And now… here he was, telling me to keep going. With the paint.

I wasn't prepared for this.

Ruth (My Grandmother)

Next, the medium’s tone shifted.

“Now there’s a woman on your mother’s side. She’s… flat. Emotionless. Very dry. Do you want to talk to her?”

It was Ruth. My grandmother.We didn’t have a bad relationship. We just didn’t have one.

“She’s acknowledging family disconnect. That you don’t see your family very often. And she wishes things were different.”

That landed like a familiar sigh I release too often.But then she added,

“You need to be happy with what you have. She’s showing me your son. Says he’s energetic and very smart. Special. And… that you don’t need to stress about having another child. Just focus on him.”

This was the point where my heart tried to throw itself out the emergency exit. It felt like someone pulled a truth out of me and placed it under a magnifying glass. That is exactly something Ruth would say, full of good-intention, but doesn’t realize it’s hurtful.

It was too much. I was unraveling in slow motion. 

Steve (My Father)

My father, Steve.

And then, as Ruth faded, the medium glanced at her timer. Five minutes left. She seemed more anxious than I was to make room for the next guest.

“There’s a very hysterical man here. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or drunk or both.”

That was my dad. Steve.

“He came in very charming and funny. Now he’s apologizing. He’s overwhelmed. Was he… struggling with addiction?”

Yes. For years.

“He says he’s sorry for leaving the way he did. He wants you to know… no one could’ve saved him. All he really needed was love. And that would have been enough.”

At this point, I was basically levitating above my own body..

Then she added:

“He wants you to stop hanging all those dirty clothes over your son’s bed. He says you should show your son photos of him instead.”

And I spiraled. Fully.

The "Dirty Clothes Above The Bed"

Because last fall, I had his old oil-stained jeans and torn-up shirts sewn into a tapestry that now hangs in Otto’s room. His wardrobe was… modest. He wore the same five items for decades, each embroidered with sweat, dirt, paint, and a lifetime of manual labor. And somehow, my father—this present spirit—was now acknowledging something so deeply private. 

I couldn’t hear the medium anymore. I could only hear the blood rushing in my ears. Who was this woman? How did she know?

—-

By the time the session ended, I was walking upside down through a world that no longer made sense. I had just shared a room with three dead relatives. Three spirits who knew things many living people don’t.

I couldn’t return to the deck of women. Couldn’t return to surface-level conversations. I couldn’t pretend. I slipped out the back door. Didn’t say goodbye. Just disappeared.

I considered going to the beach to process, to let the wind take away what my brain couldn’t hold. But in the end, I drove home—to my husband, my son, my former reality.

My husband held space. He could see that my head was floating somewhere in the next room and my eyes were doing that vacant, post-cry shimmer. He didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed soft. 

I kissed Otto longer than usual. Tucked him in and stared at my father’s clothing tapestry hanging on the wall. I fought the urge to take it down—not because I don’t love him, but because I didn’t yet know how to live with this new awareness.

I wasn’t ready to believe in life after death. But now… I might not have a choice.

And as the weight of it all settled in, I realized: this isn’t just about belief. It’s something bigger. Whether or not I felt ready, today felt like a grand, disorienting, deeply personal welcome into the next chapter of my journey—a gesture too loud to ignore. One that asked me to hold steady with faith over fear, and to keep digging—into the unknown, into myself, into something beyond my comfort zone. To keep going.