What Listening Changed

 That first vision didn’t turn me toward the extraordinary.

It turned me toward listening.

At the time, I didn’t rush to interpret what I’d seen. I didn’t search for meaning or pattern. I didn’t tell myself a story that made me feel special or chosen.

I simply carried it.

What changed wasn’t my belief system.

It was my relationship with timing.

I learned that not everything announces itself when it happens. Some moments are understood only later, when life moves into the shape they quietly prepared you for.

That vision taught me how to wait without anxiety.

How to trust calm without needing reassurance.

How to sit with something unresolved without trying to name it too soon.

Most importantly, it softened my fear.

Not fear of death — but fear of not knowing.

Fear of uncertainty.

Fear of standing in a space where answers hadn’t yet arrived.

After that, listening became less about hearing messages and more about noticing when not to speak. I stopped forcing insight. I stopped chasing confirmation. I learned how to let moments complete themselves.

Later visions came — but they arrived differently.

They didn’t startle me.

They didn’t demand attention.

They felt familiar, like a language I already understood enough not to translate.

Listening, I discovered, isn’t passive.

It’s an act of trust.

It means allowing life to move first.

Allowing meaning to catch up on its own time.

Allowing yourself to be changed without needing to be certain why.

That first vision didn’t give me answers.

It gave me steadiness.

And steadiness, I learned, is what allows truth to arrive without breaking you.