Put on your shoes. Brush your teeth. Rinse off. We don’t have time. You have five minutes to play that game. We have to go to school.

It feels like there is never enough time.

The other day, a friend told me her teenage daughter was saying how fast time is going by. She said that when she was younger, time moved much more slowly. I found that interesting, because I always felt the opposite - even when I was seven, time already seemed to move quickly.

My mom recently said something similar, but in a different way: when she thinks about moments from her childhood, it feels like they’re happening now.

There are so many ways to experience time. The speed of it. The feeling of it. The strange sense that life is short, or that something from twenty years ago just happened.

What if time wasn’t what you thought it was?

What if everything didn’t happen in the order we believe it does?

I’ve heard people describe time as something that doesn’t exist the way we experience it, especially in near-death experiences. It’s a hard idea to grasp, because we’re so used to thinking of time as fixed and moving in one direction.

I developed a TV show about an intuitive woman who clears energy from spaces. What made her unique was that she didn’t just focus on the energy in the present. She looked at the history of a place, the astrology, the land, and even what might happen there in the future. Her daughter could “see” time - what had been there, and what might come next.

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A Life That Didn’t Add Up

Recently, I had my first past life regression.

Past life regression is a guided visualization process that invites you to access memories or impressions from another lifetime.

In the session, I saw details that placed me in the 1940s. The bathing suit I was wearing. The picnic basket. The red and white checkered blanket. A modest kitchen with a refrigerator and sink. I just knew that was the time.

Then I saw my death. I was old.

And that’s when my mind got confused.

If I lived a full life and died of old age, how could I be here now?

That life felt real in a way I could understand, and it made sense in the context of the life I have now. It reflected themes of equality, tolerance, and love, where differences were embraced.

So if that was real… how does time actually work?

My regressionist later explained that time is a human construct, and that souls can split. The idea of souls splitting is a whole other conversation, but the idea of time not being linear made sense, even if I couldn’t fully grasp it.

My intention for that session had been simple: to see a loving relationship. And I did. But I kept wondering… why that life? What was it trying to show me?

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The Next Regression

Then I did a second regression.

This one was an “in-between” life regression. I was guided through a significant past life and then connected with my guides in the afterlife to explore my purpose in this life.

I went in with my heart racing. Every time I do a regression, I’m nervous about what I might see. A difficult life. A difficult death. I know my grandfather is one of my spirit guides, so I wondered what that experience would be like.

No matter how much I tried to calm myself, I couldn’t.

As I was guided through a tunnel into that life, my heart was pounding. Then I stepped out… and saw nothing. Just black.

I thought, oh no. I’m not going to see anything.

And then suddenly, I saw myself doing cartwheels through space.

It might sound hard to believe, but it felt completely real.

I saw my dress, how it scooped in the back and tied. My long dirty blond hair. When I looked in a mirror, I saw my face, not exaggerated or alien, but slightly different. A softer v structure. Olive-shaped eyes.

Then I saw the life.

It felt like the year 2380.

I was on another planet, living in a futuristic space with tall buildings and floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside was hazy, with sunlight barely filtering through. I knew we couldn’t go outside. The planet wasn’t fully inhabitable.

Everything felt detailed. Cinematic. Real.

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The Question

But what stood out wasn’t just what I saw, it was how time didn’t make sense again. I was supposed to be seeing a past life.

When I spoke to the regressionist and a friend who has deep experience with past lives, they both told me they had never heard of someone seeing the future.

It made me pay attention.

My intention going in was to see what my highest self wanted to show me, and what came out of it was a direct question.

How does time actually work?

My higher self seems to be asking me to understand it. To question it. To explore what it is and what it actually means.

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What This Is Opening Up

Recently, my husband sent me a video of Dustin Hoffman talking about dimensions and time, and it felt like another confirmation that what we perceive is only a small fraction of what’s actually possible.

I don’t have answers yet.

As I keep asking questions and exploring these experiences, time is one I feel especially drawn to understand.

If you’ve had any thoughts or experiences around time, I’d love to hear them.

I was open, but I didn’t have a specific intention. I just wanted to experience it.

As the session started, eyes closed, we were guided through breathwork with music playing in the background. It was calm at first, then more immersive.

I started visualizing images from my childhood. I saw the courtyard where my grandmother used to live, my family at Disneyland, the community pool we belonged to when I was growing up. The memories just appeared, unprompted and unexpected.

At first, I wasn’t sure what it meant. Why those moments? Why now?

And then it clicked.

Every single one of those memories was simple, but they were all beautiful. The people I loved were there. I was in places that felt safe and familiar. There was nothing complicated about any of it.

And now those moments are gone.

Things change. Life moves. People move. Time moves.

It made me realize how easy it is to miss what’s happening while you’re in it, to assume it will always be there, to not fully take it in.

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THE SMALL MOMENTS

That feeling stayed with me for the rest of the day.

I found myself more present, slower, paying attention. I started to feel how connected we all are.

After the workshop, I went with my family to Menchie’s for frozen yogurt and sat outside. It felt like a normal moment, but I was seeing everything a little differently.

At one point, a man roller-skated past us. He had a red mohawk, a full denim outfit covered in patches, and typical roller skating rink music playing from his phone. As he passed, he did a smooth, almost effortless move, like a little performance just for us, then kept going without ever turning around. We never even saw his face.

My husband and I looked at each other immediately. We both felt it. It was so specific, so unexpected, and somehow perfect.

He leaned over to our daughter and said, “That was for you.” And it felt true.

Later, when I was getting yogurt, I noticed a woman wearing a skirt that stood out to me. It wasn’t something I would wear, but it was unique enough that I registered it. A little while later, I walked out of the bathroom and saw another woman wearing almost the exact same skirt, same style, same feel.

What are the chances? Maybe it’s just a trend I don’t know about. That’s possible. But in that moment, it didn’t feel random. It felt like another quiet confirmation of what I was starting to see more clearly.

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THE PATTERN

None of these things were big. They didn’t change my life, and they weren’t dramatic or overwhelming. But they felt meaningful.

I’ve always noticed things like this. What feels different is what happens when I lean into it.

When I slow down, when I pay attention, when I start leaning into something deeper, it’s like the world begins to respond, not in a loud or obvious way, but in small, precise moments that feel just a little too aligned to ignore.

It’s not that anything new is happening. It’s that the pattern becomes clearer.

And once you see it that way, it all starts to feel so wonderfully connected.

“What do we actually want to manifest? That’s not even the game. The real question is: how am I showing up, and what do I need to do?”

That’s a question I’ve been trying to figure out for some time.

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Maybe the Real Question is How Do We Want to Show Up

During my very bad, no good year, I attended a workshop led by Marianne Williamson, a renowned spiritual teacher and political activist. Even getting there felt harder than it should have. I had bought the ticket months earlier, after my most recent miscarriage. My grandmother had just died, and the day before the workshop our cat Ingmar died. He was almost eighteen. I cried through the night and woke up feeling empty, unsure if I should even go.

In the months leading up to it, I kept referring to the event as a spiritual workshop. I knew Marianne would speak about politics and activism, but I was still surprised by how heavily the morning focused on the state of the world and our responsibility to meet it with love. The urgency was palpable. The message was clear: if things do not change, we are headed somewhere dire.

Part of me wanted something more comforting because of my grief. Something closer to a manifesting tone. A little more hope in the way I thought I needed it. I thought of motivational speaker Gabrielle Bernstein, whose work often feels supportive and grounding before asking anything more of you. But as the day went on, I understood why this workshop was different. Marianne wasn’t trying to make us feel better. She was asking us to participate.

That landed hard.

So many things were already being thrown at me then, personally, emotionally, spiritually. And on top of that, there was the world itself. There always seems to be another crisis, another injustice, another story that pulls at our conscience. It is so easy to get wrapped up in your own survival, your own family, your own responsibilities, and lose sight of the fact that other people are also carrying unbearable things. The truth is, most of us are overwhelmed. Most of us are busy. Most of us are doing our best just to get through the day.

And still, the question remains: what do we do?

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Where Do We Even Start?

Around that time, what was happening in Minneapolis had me talking with family and friends about how we could help. As a filmmaker, we eventually decided we wanted to tell human stories about the people who had been detained and the people working to make a difference in their communities, to humanize the narrative rather than simply react to headlines. I even met with a fantastic filmmaker in Chicago who was making incredible films, and we had someone lined up with an amazing story, a first-grade teacher in Minneapolis. Then it fell through. We never made the films. Life got busier, and other work took over.

For a while, that felt like failure to me.

Where Our Work Meets the Moment

Then I realized I was already in the middle of making a different kind of film, one about someone serially killing federally protected wild horses in Arizona and the community surrounding it. On the surface, it might seem like an entirely separate issue. But the more time I spend with this documentary, the more I see that it is a microcosm of what is happening all across the United States. There is a terrible problem. People care deeply. Everyone disagrees about what is happening, why it is happening, and what should be done. People get entrenched. They agree to disagree. And yet when you start pulling back the layers, you realize that everyone has a story. Everyone has a perspective. Everyone is carrying something. And once you begin to really listen, it becomes harder not to humanize all of them, because we are all human.

I think that may be one of the central challenges of our time. How do we humanize one another again? How do we remember that people are complicated, that most of us are not all good or all bad, that we are capable of kindness and harm, blindness and courage, often all at once? How do we show that even when there is deep injustice, the answer is not to flatten each other into categories but to understand the deeper currents underneath?

I hope that is part of what this film can do. I love getting the opportunity to tell people’s stories and, through that, bring attention to the horses and what is happening to them. I realized something important through this process: I gravitate toward stories where there is injustice, where change is needed, and where the heart of each person involved still matters.

And I also realized something else. Just because I am a filmmaker and a storyteller does not mean I am doing less than someone whose form of giving looks more direct or traditionally activist. It just looks different.

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The Pressure to Do More

That has been an important lesson for me, especially as someone who can so easily slip into guilt. Am I doing enough? Should I be doing more? Am I contributing in the way this moment requires? I think a lot of people feel that way right now. We look at the world and feel both called and paralyzed. We care deeply, but we are tired. We want to help, but we do not always know how.

A friend once told me that we rarely know just how much of a difference we make, even in small moments. I think about that a lot. It is possible we are helping in ways we do not even recognize. It is also possible that the thing we are naturally equipped to do, the thing that comes most honestly to us, is not separate from service. Maybe it is the service.

Finding our Own Purpose

That does not let us off the hook. But it does ask for a more honest question.

Not just: what do I want?

But: how am I showing up?

And what do I need to do?

That feels like a different kind of spirituality to me. Less about control. Less about outcomes. More about participation. More about using whatever gifts we have in a way that leaves something better behind.

I still do not have a perfect answer. I still wonder if I should be doing more. I probably always will. But I am beginning to understand that purpose is not always loud. Sometimes it is not about dramatically changing the world all at once. Sometimes it is about paying attention to where your skills, your heart, and the needs of the moment intersect.

That may be the real work.

And maybe that is the game after all.

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That if I saw the numbers, the right symbols, the repetition, it meant yes. It meant forward. It meant reward. People call that synchronicity, alignment.

But what happens when the signs keep showing up and you don’t get what you asked for?

Worse, what happens when you think you’re manifesting something specific, and instead you get the opposite?

I was leaning into my spirituality - meditating, visualizing, practicing gratitude. There were times where the signs were loud. Almost aggressive. I would see them everywhere. Patterns repeating. Conversations lining up. Doors opening. And then the outcome would land nowhere near what I had hoped.

That’s when I got angry.

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When I Was Sure This Was It

I had been trying to get pregnant for three years. Multiple IUIs. IVF. After my third miscarriage during that time, I wanted to slam the door on every tool I had been using.

When we went in for our fifth IUI, I was in the middle of a manifestation challenge on Gabby Bernstein’s app. Halfway through that cycle, we were given the opportunity to switch to IVF for half the usual cost. Fertility treatments cost an arm and a leg, so it felt like a miracle. I was sure I had manifested it.

On the morning of the transfer, the daily exercise included Gabby sharing about her own pregnancy journey. I took it as a sign. As we walked into our appointment, I saw my symbol, a spider printed large on the side of a U-Haul truck in the parking lot. While we waited for the doctor, I looked at the clock. 1:11 p.m. A number associated with manifesting your desires.

When the embryos were transferred, the doctor said encouragingly that one of them looked textbook perfect. I even confirmed with Google when I got home. I watched it enter my body. It felt miraculous. I remember thinking, this is it. My husband and I felt good about the outcome.

The two-week wait was unbearable, but when the call finally came and I was told I was pregnant, I was ecstatic. At six and seven weeks, there was a strong heartbeat. I allowed myself to exhale. I allowed myself to believe.

At the eight-week appointment, my husband came with me. He had been traveling for the earlier scans and was so excited that he started filming before the ultrasound even began. I can still see him standing there, hopeful, camera up.

The room changed before the words did. The technician grew quiet. She adjusted the wand, repositioned, searched. I wasn’t even looking at the screen anymore. I was watching her face. There’s a subtle shift when someone knows something you don’t want to hear.

They kept looking.

There was no heartbeat.

Like they had done during the previous miscarriages, the doctor and technician expressed their condolences and stepped out to give us privacy. My husband and I sat there in that dim room and cried. We held each other and tried to process the loss of something we had just allowed ourselves to fully believe in minutes earlier.

I remember the weight of knowing how deeply we had trusted the signs this time.

That was the moment I didn’t want to believe anymore.

For weeks after that, I wanted to stop meditating. I wanted to stop looking for meaning. I wanted to stop believing that there was some larger orchestration guiding me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to opt out.

I felt abandoned in a way that’s hard to admit out loud. I had done the work. I had paid attention. I had tried to align myself. So why wasn’t it unfolding the way I thought it should?

What I Understand Now

It took me longer than I’d like to admit to understand something uncomfortable: signs aren’t promises. They’re positioning.

Sometimes they aren’t confirming the outcome you want. They’re confirming who you are becoming in the process.

I didn’t arrive at that understanding gracefully.

Instead of pulling away completely, I chose to lean harder into my faith after that, but not in the way I had before. It wasn’t about manifesting a specific result anymore. It was about survival. It was about learning how to sit with grief without letting it swallow me whole. That path was not easier. In fact, it was harder. There were more losses. More months that felt unbearably heavy. But something inside me began to strengthen in a way it hadn’t before.

The loss didn’t give me what I asked for, but it pushed me into a deeper relationship with faith, with writing, and with the kinds of conversations I’m having today. A year ago, I had no idea this path was even available to me. I wouldn’t have chosen it the way it came, but I can see now that it was cracking something open in me.

Lately, I’ve been seeing my signs intensely again. Not in a way that feels like a guarantee, but in a way that feels grounding. Almost like a quiet nod. Not “you’re getting what you asked for,” but “you’re exactly where you need to be.”

And that feels different.

I feel less desperate now. Less attached to the specific form something takes. I’m still ambitious. I still set intentions. But I’m not gripping them with the same urgency.

There’s a phrase I’ve come back to recently: if not this, something better.

The relief of letting go is real. It doesn’t mean I don’t care. It means I trust the reroute.

Sometimes what we think we’re manifesting is just the doorway. The real shift happens in what we didn’t plan for.

I used to look for signs as proof. Now I see them as reassurance. That whatever happens is unfolding the way it’s meant to, even if I can’t see it yet.

And right now, that feels like enough.

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