In light of what’s happening with Roe Vs Wade, I want to share what I’ve learned about abortion as a trusted intuitive medium.
Some of you know my story, but some of you don’t. In a nutshell, I suddenly started channeling messages from children who have passed on when I turned 36. (I'll be 49 in September.) I never believed in mediumship and am, by nature, extremely science-minded. As you can imagine, this was all very hard for me to process in the beginning of my stranger-than-fiction journey. I wasn’t looking for any of it—the kids simply found me. Eventually, I developed partnerships with detectives around the country because many of the kids had been murdered in their lifetime. They wanted me to pass specific information regarding their cases. With that said, murder victims aren’t the only souls who come to me. I channel messages from souls who were miscarried and aborted, too. And I’ve shared messages from those souls with countless moms over the past decade who’ve endured those experiences. Now, this is not something I do for money—it’s all volunteer-based. And I can’t make a soul/spirit come to me; they simply come when they want. Sometimes they share messages and ask me to hold onto them for later…when their parents are guided to me. You can read more about my journey (and WHY all of this happened to me) in my upcoming book, Little Voices. Decorated NYPD Detective (ret) Mark Pucci wrote the foreword for my memoir and we recently launched a nonprofit together called The National Institute for Law and Justice (nilj.org).
Today, I want to share what I hear from souls who’ve been aborted. First of all, our kids pick us to be their parents. Whether they come into the world and live a full human life or not. Where abortion is concerned, they say that they knew about it from the get go and even influenced the mother’s decision so there are NO hard feelings. There is only love and compassion for their mom, and many times, the same soul will come back through the mother at a later time to be born into the world. (This happens a lot with miscarriages, too.) Sometimes they simply remain in spirit form as a guardian angel for their mom and family. Abortion is not considered murder by any means. It’s an experience that the soul agreed to experience, in tandem, with the mother’s soul.
There is so much shame and misunderstanding around abortion (and miscarriages). I, personally, endured a miscarriage after Nat and Grace were born. I know that soul is a guardian for me, and I’m forever grateful for her.
It’s hard for all of us (me included) to wrap our heads and hearts around the meaning of life because it’s not something we can easily understand with our rational human minds. But if you take a bird’s eye view at our collective evolution over the past 100 years, you can see where we were on the right side of history, leading with respect and love for all human beings regardless of race, class, and gender. When we lead with love and compassion for self and others, we’re moving all of us forward for generations to come. When we lead from a place of control, fear, shame, restriction, and separation, we’re not.
Considering what I just shared about the soul’s view of abortion, do you think the movement to overturn Roe vs Wade leads from a place of love and compassion or control, restriction, and fear?
I know my answer. And I know our 19-year-old daughter’s answer. Last night, while we were getting ready for bed, she sent me this text:
“I’m very scared.”
My heart sunk into my stomach. Naturally, I did my best to calm her fears but I knew it wasn’t enough. I shared articles about what states like CA and OR are doing to protect women's rights. But I knew I couldn’t say for certain that she wouldn’t—that women and girls wouldn’t—lose their right to control their own bodies. A few minutes later, my phone lit up again with her reply.
“It’s so depressing knowing that in this world I’m only considered a mother for a child and a body for a man.”
It really is, baby girl, it really is.
*Posted with my daughter's permission.
Sitting cross-legged in the door jamb to the outdoor balcony of my apartment had become my go-to place during a fight. As I carefully unwrapped a fresh pack of Virginia Slim menthols, I leaned forward to see if my neighbors were anywhere in sight. They weren’t, thank god. What I was about to do broke the apartment complex rules, so naturally, I had to see if anyone was looking as I lit the end of the cig and sharply inhaled. I began puffing away the pain. It was September 9, 2016. I was 43.
After two years of birthday fights, you’d think I’d be used to this by now. Every event or holiday that meant something to me was thrashed by the very man who said he loved me. It was a pattern even he noticed yet still perpetuated. His fighting was electric in every sense—he cut me to the core with the touch of his keyboard all the while igniting a flood of stress hormones into my system making me feel high. We weren’t even fighting in person because he was back East visiting his kids, but I still felt tethered to his rapid-fire assault. I couldn’t just let my phone be and walk away.
Carefully, I put out the last of the cig in a small water-filled cup and reached for another. Just then, my phone rang. It was Scott. Wiping tears from eyes, I cleared my throat before I answered his call.
“Happy Birthday, Kiersten.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. Is everything okay with the kids?”
“Yeah, they’re both busy and good. I just wanted to see if I could drop off a little present for you. From Grace. And another little something.”
In that moment, I felt both happiness and dread. I didn’t even know it was possible to feel both emotions at the same time. I knew what would happen if he learned that Scott was popping by.
“Yes, of course, thank you.”
About twenty minutes later, there was a knock on my apartment door.
“Hey, so, happy birthday, again. I wanted to bring you a few things. One is from Grace. I know you’re seeing the kids for your birthday tomorrow but she asked me to bring it by.”
“That’s so sweet, come on in.”
We walked to living room area when I started choking up. “Hey, so can we run upstairs to the balcony for a second? I could really use a smoke.”
“You and your rebel ways,” he said grinning. “Of course…Wanna open these upstairs?”
We climbed the stairs to the smoking spot. Scott wasn’t a smoker although when he was in a play in his twenties, his character smoked. He could pick it up and put it down. I thought I was that way, too, until I wasn’t. I’d been living with a two-pack a day smoker for the last six months. One who thought it was okay to light up inside the apartment. Eventually, I gave in, too. I’d lost the battle in many ways.
Lighting cigs while sitting cross-legged near the open door, we took a few puffs off our menthol-flavored cancer sticks. Then Scott handed me two bags: one with Grace’s sweet homemade gift and the other with a bottle of gin, a Cosmopolitan magazine, and a happy birthday card.
Feeling the burning sensation in the back of my throat that would quickly be followed by a flood of tears, I tried to suck the emotion back down. It didn’t work.
The one I thought I loved was still assaulting me on text, although I hadn’t looked in the ten minutes Scott popped by. I could hear the faint alert that yet another dagger had arrived.
The one that loved me, whom I’d hurt so terribly two years prior, was sitting opposite me offering kindness and compassion. He knew what was happening. It wasn’t hard to decode yet he never said a word about it.
Instead, Scott made me laugh through tears, telling me about how he almost got kicked out of a Scottsdale karaoke bar for defending his date. When there was nothing left to chat about, he simply sat with me, cigarette dangling from between his fingers.
His kindness cloaked my weary, strung out body with a blanket of ease. The kind of ease that comes with eighteen years of marriage and two kids. The kind of ease that eventually helped save me from a lifetime of abuse.
Today, as I was thinking about my upcoming 47th birthday, I thought back to that day. To his kindness and unwavering faith in me that I’d eventually claw my way out of the abuse. To his willingness to just sit with me, smoke a terrible cigarette, and remind me that I was born to give and receive kindness…and be more than someone’s punching bag.
** I quit smoking after I got out of the abusive relationship in 2017, and reunited with Scott. It was easy to do since I wasn’t on the receiving end of verbal and emotional abuse anymore. If you’re dealing with narcissistic/sociopathic abuse, I hope you have someone like Scott in your life to remind you that love shouldn’t hurt.
More info about my upcoming book.