Why I Called 10 Psychics

A Cautionary Tale in Dopamine & Denial

In my 30s, I started dating a man who hit me like a lightning bolt.

Head over heels. Heart in my throat. Can’t-stop-checking-my-phone kind of thing.

You know the type.

Within a month or two, the cracks started showing — and the red flags were waving like they were getting paid for it.

But I was hooked. Or more accurately: high.

Love? Maybe.

Lust? Definitely.

Dopamine? Absolutely.

My gut was pinging. My brain said run. But instead of listening, I started looking for backup.

So I called a psychic. Then another. And another.

Over the next two months, I called ten different readers looking for answers.

Well — not answers.

Permission.

Because the first nine told me things I didn’t want to hear. They warned me. And I ignored them, Psychic # 10 told me he was my soulmate. So naturally, I packed up the red flags, ignored the cracks, and married him. Two years and one child later, I finally had the good sense to get off the ride.

The Truth Is... I wasn’t seeking clarity — I was chasing comfort.

I didn’t want a psychic — I wanted a co-conspirator.

Someone to bless the fantasy I was clinging to like it was real.

That’s why, when clients ask me about “soulmates, I don’t jump in with stories or sugar.

I ask questions. I listen for their gut, not their giddiness.

And I tell them the truth — even if it’s not the one they were hoping to buy.

Because I’ve been the woman who bought the story.

And I’ll never sell her back to herself.