What the Lights Opened - Orb Experiences & Consciousness
When Orb Experiences Entered the Story
How collapse, healing, extraordinary experience, and deep questioning changed the way I understood myself and reality.
My awakening didn’t start with the sky.
It started with my life collapsing.
That is probably the most important thing to understand about everything I am going to write about here.
People have asked me how I began seeing the lights, orbs, whatever name we eventually decide belongs to this phenomenon.
Sometimes the question is framed almost as though there must have been a technique. A certain meditation. A perfect night. A sequence of steps that somehow made the sky begin behaving differently.
But that isn’t how it happened for me.
The lights entered the story during one of the hardest periods of my life.
My home no longer felt like my home. My routines had broken apart. Someone I loved was in crisis. Old wounds I thought I had already dealt with were suddenly alive again, and my nervous system was being pushed beyond anything I knew how to manage.
There were days when I felt as though my body was remembering things before my conscious mind understood what was happening. Underneath all of it was a growing realization that I could no longer live the same way.
I couldn’t keep carrying certain patterns simply because they were familiar. I couldn’t keep abandoning myself to keep everything else stable. I couldn’t keep confusing endurance with healing.
Therapy became one of the anchors that kept me grounded during that time.
My therapist gave me When Women Were Dragons, and something about that book opened another layer of understanding for me. I began looking differently at the patterns carried through generations of women in my family, at what had been survived, repeated, normalized, and inherited..
And I became intensely aware that I had a choice.
Some cycles could end with me.
That realization was not gentle. It required boundaries I had never held before, honesty I had sometimes avoided, and a willingness to look at parts of myself that were much easier to leave buried.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, the lights, my beloved orbs, began appearing.
When the Sky Entered the Story
This is a still frame from a two-minute video we recorded as this luminous orb moved from the back of our backyard toward the front, passed roughly 50 feet above the treetops, and continued over the house into the sky. To the naked eye, it appeared as a brilliantly bright white sphere with sharp, diamond-like spikes of light radiating outward as it moved. The colors visible in this still were produced by the camera and enhanced by adjusting brightness, contrast, highlights, shadows, and saturation for easier viewing. The structure visible behind the light appeared in this single frame of the video and was not something we saw directly with our eyes at the time. As it passed, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of unconditional love, something I could only describe as a sense of God, Source, or a larger consciousness moving close by.
I had noticed unusual things in the sky before.
There had been strange lights during the winter, curiosity surrounding the New Jersey drone reports, UAP press conferences, sightings, and the broader cultural conversation happening at the time. But what I later came to think of as my own experience of the phenomenon unfolded differently.
It became personal.
As my life became more emotionally intense, the sightings became more frequent. I began observing lights that seemed unusual to me, sometimes behaving in ways I could not easily reconcile with what I expected from ordinary aircraft or satellites.
Alongside them came synchronicities, powerful intuitive impressions, vivid dreams, and moments of spontaneous knowing that felt qualitatively different from ordinary thought.
Some of these experiences were subtle. Others were not...for example, the orb from the video footage above, that one was not subtle at all.
As these orb experiences became more frequent, I began noticing what felt like a relationship between what was happening internally and what I was observing externally.
There was a pattern I could not stop noticing. As I became more honest with myself, established stronger boundaries, confronted grief and old wounds, and became more attentive to my internal state, my experience of the phenomenon seemed to deepen as well.
That raised a question that has stayed with me ever since:
What if observation is not always as separate from participation as we assume?
That question changed the direction of my attention.
The Body Became Part of the Mystery
One of the most unexpected things this period taught me was how little I had understood my own body.
For much of my life, I experienced my body almost as something I lived inside of.
During this period, I began experiencing it more like an ecosystem. Everything communicates. Like a microcosm, of the macrocosm.
Sleep changes perception. Food influences cognition and mood. Breath changes nervous-system state. Hormones, organs, the brain, the gut, sensory information, memory, attention, and emotion are continually influencing one another.
The more I learned to regulate my nervous system, the more aware I became of changes in my own state. Meditation made this especially apparent. When some of the internal noise quieted, subtler sensations and signals became easier to notice.
I began thinking of the body almost like an instrument, something capable of being tuned.
Sometimes I use the language of a transmitter and receiver because that is how the experience feels from inside it. Attention, perception, sensation, and consciousness seem intimately connected. I do not mean that metaphor as a settled scientific claim. It is something I am curious about, but I do feel as though science will explore this concept more deeply in the coming years.
It changed the way I approached my own body.
Regulation stopped meaning only “calming down.” I began wondering whether nervous-system state might also influence what we notice, how we process information, and which layers of experience become available to conscious awareness.
What happens when the nervous system moves out of constant survival?
What becomes noticeable when attention grows quieter?
What does the body register before the analytical mind has language for it?
Those questions eventually carried me into neuroscience, nervous-system regulation, meditation research, sound, physiology, altered states, consciousness studies, and later, plasma physics.
The lights were opening doors in directions I never expected.
A Language I Somehow Recognized
Another major turning point came when I read Chris Bledsoe’s UFO of God.
What affected me most was not simply the UFO material.
It was the presence he calls The Lady.
The Divine Feminine running through his experiences touched something immediately familiar in me. It led me into another enormous path of inquiry.
I began tracing feminine archetypes through religion, mythology, history, and culture, alongside their masculine counterparts. Different names. Different places. Different symbols. Yet certain themes appeared again and again. I became fascinated by those recurrences.
That exploration eventually became inseparable from everything else I was studying.
Consciousness, symbolism, nature, the nervous system, mythology, extraordinary experience, the body, and the sky stopped feeling like completely separate subjects.
They began looking more like different windows facing the same landscape.
I was not trying to force them into one explanation. In fact, the more I explored, the more careful I became about doing that. But I could no longer ignore how often the same questions seemed to echo across different fields.
What is consciousness?
How much of reality depends upon the way an observer perceives and participates in it?
Why do certain symbols and archetypes recur across cultures?
What happens to perception in altered or meditative states?
What is the relationship between the body, attention, environment, and experience?
And why did my own life seem to become stranger precisely as I began asking these questions more seriously?
What Changed in Me
Looking back, perhaps the deepest change was that reality stopped feeling flat.
It began feeling layered. Relational. Participatory.
Perception itself became something I questioned instead of something I took for granted.
My experiences also changed my relationship with death.
I cannot prove what happens after we die.. I would not pretend that I can. But I came away from this period with a much stronger personal belief that consciousness may not simply end with the body.
That possibility softened a fear I had carried for a long time. And perhaps even more importantly, I stopped feeling quite so alone.
There were moments during this period when loneliness felt almost absolute. Yet through meditation, experiences in the sky, synchronicities, moments of profound love, and something I can only describe as contact with a larger presence, I began developing a relationship with what I think of as Source, universal consciousness, or whatever language someone might choose for the deeper intelligence underlying existence.
I discovered that I could draw from that sense of connection.
Not as an escape from ordinary life, but as a resource within it.
The lights did not rescue me.
Therapy mattered. Boundaries mattered. Rest mattered. Food mattered. Grief mattered. My relationships mattered. The difficult, extremely human work mattered.
The Orbs became part of the landscape in which that transformation was occurring.
They made me wonder again. And wonder changed everything.
Why I Am Writing Now
For a while, pieces of this story have existed everywhere.
Facebook posts, videos, podcast interviews, private conversations, notes, memories, footage sitting on hard drives and phones, questions scribbled down before I forgot them, and fragments of insight scattered across different seasons of my life.
At some point I realized I didn’t want all of it to remain fragmented.
I wanted to gather as much as I could into one place. Not because I believe every experience needs to become a conclusion, but because taken together, they tell a story. They reveal patterns. They show how my understanding has changed over time.
I wanted an archive. And beneath that desire is something much older in me.
I have always carried the feeling that, however small my contribution might be, I want to leave this world a little better than I found it.
I have experienced enough difficulty here to know how hard being human can be. I know what it is to hurt, to feel alone inside an experience, and to search for something that might help make sense of what you are going through.
I think the parts of me that have suffered are also the parts of me that most want to contribute something useful.
Maybe that is one of the ways suffering can be transformed.
Not romanticized. Not justified.
Transformed.
If something I learned through my own struggle can help another person suffer a little less, understand themselves a little more deeply, become curious about their own experience, or simply feel less alone, then sharing it has value.
Even if it reaches only one person, that is enough for me.
I also think about people like Dorothy Izatt, whose extraordinary experiences were documented over many years and preserved in a way that allowed others to encounter them long after the original moments had passed.
There is something profoundly meaningful to me about that.
Experiences disappear if no one records them. Memories change. Videos get buried.
Social-media posts vanish into endless feeds. Eventually, we ourselves are no longer here to explain what happened.
I want to document what I can while I am here. My story is not more important than anyone else’s, but it is the one I have been given to live.
I want some record of it to remain beyond me.
I want the questions, footage, reflections, mistakes, discoveries, and moments of wonder to still be available to someone I may never meet. Maybe years from now.
Maybe long after my own physical life has ended.
There is something comforting about the possibility that something I experienced, learned, or created could continue doing a little good after I am gone.
That feels like another kind of alchemy to me.
Turning experience into something that can be shared. Turning suffering into compassion. Turning fragments into an archive. Turning one human life into something that might continue reaching outward beyond its own boundaries.
That is why I am writing.
Not because I think everyone should interpret these experiences the way I do.
Not because I have answers to hand anyone. And certainly not because I want to construct another belief system for people to adopt..
I want to share because somebody else may recognize something here.
Someone going through grief may feel less alone. Someone whose perception is changing may realize they do not have to immediately force an explanation onto it. Someone who has spent their life doubting their own intuition may become curious about their relationship with their body.
Someone frightened of mystery may begin approaching it with wonder instead.
And maybe someone will read something here and ask a question neither of us has thought to ask yet.
That matters to me.
The Living Journal
The Living Journal will be a place for that kind of inquiry.
For lived experience and science. For embodiment and mystery. For plasma and mythology. For nervous systems and consciousness. For symbolism, nature, intuition, creativity, and whatever else appears along the way.
Some entries will be deeply personal.
Others will follow research threads. Some may document experiences almost as field notes, while others may explore connections between disciplines that are rarely placed beside one another.
I do not expect all of those explorations to lead to the same conclusion. That is part of the point.
I know what I experienced. I know how profoundly it changed me.
My interpretations are still alive, still changing, still being tested against what I learn next. And perhaps that is what the lights opened more than anything else.
Curiosity.
A willingness to look again.
A willingness to wonder whether reality might contain considerably more than I once allowed myself to imagine.
And a willingness to keep following the questions wherever they lead.
✨️🫧💜🫧✨️
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