Well, Damn... The Trust Trial of 2026

For once, I knew exactly what I needed.

Not another book. Not another certification. Not another late-night rabbit hole because my tism-ism brain had decided sleep was optional and answers were mandatory.

I needed trust.

Not trust in the Universe. Not trust in my guides. Not even trust in intuition itself.

I needed trust in me.

This past weekend, I attended my first in-person class in quite a while. Not Zoom. Not virtual. An actual class with actual humans in an actual building. That alone was exciting.

Even better, I could drive myself.

Before signing up, I checked all the practical details. Was there accessible parking? Were the bathrooms accessible? Could I navigate the building without turning the entire experience into an obstacle course? Once I got the green light, I signed up.

The class was called Embrace Your Inner Knowing - Connect to Your Intuition.

Now, some of you may be wondering why I would take an intuition class in the first place. That's a fair question.

The truth is, intuition has never really been my problem.

The whisper is there.

The nudges are there.

The information is there.

The problem is what happens immediately afterward.

My logical brain likes evidence. Hard evidence. Tangible evidence. Receipts. Preferably the kind that can be measured, documented, and presented in a neat little report with supporting charts and graphs.

My ego, whom we shall continue to lovingly call Mr. Stupid because he has earned that title repeatedly, likes certainty. He wants information to arrive neatly packaged, clearly labeled, and supported by sufficient documentation to survive cross-examination.

Unfortunately, the Universe has never shown the slightest interest in operating according to his preferences.

For quite a while now, I have been working on strengthening my connection with my guides. Not because I couldn't hear them, but because I didn't always trust what I was hearing. I would receive a nudge and immediately explain it away. I'd get an impression and start questioning it. 

Maybe I imagined it. 

Maybe I was reading too much into it. 

Maybe it was wishful thinking. 

Maybe it was coincidence.

The whisper never changed.

My trust did.

It's funny how life works. We get exactly what we need exactly when we need it. Every single time. The challenge is that those gifts rarely arrive wearing a name tag that says, "Hello. I am the answer you've been looking for."

Instead, they tend to appear disguised as opportunities, conversations, books, people, and experiences that seem ordinary until we look back and realize they weren't ordinary at all.

This class turned out to be one of those gifts.

Saturday started building trust almost immediately. Throughout the day, we completed exercises designed to strengthen our ability to tune into information and impressions. Some were fun. Some were surprising. Some left me staring at my notes wondering where the information had come from.

Then came the office exercise.

We were sent into an office occupied by two people and asked to gather information about the room itself and the individuals who used the desks. What kind of person sits here? Male or female? Personality? Family? Interests? Appearance? We simply wrote down whatever impressions came through.

When the answers were revealed, I just sat there blinking.

Somehow I had described the room with complete accuracy. The first desk was spot on. The second desk was ninety-nine percent accurate.

Ninety-nine percent.

Even writing those words now makes me shake my head because that was definitely not the outcome Mr. Stupid had predicted.

As the day continued, more confirmations arrived. More exercises. More validation. More moments that made it increasingly difficult to dismiss what was happening. By the time Saturday ended, I wasn't trusting more because someone had told me to trust more. I was trusting more because the pile of evidence kept growing.

Then Sunday arrived, and apparently the Universe decided we were moving beyond classroom exercises and into practical application.

I pulled into the parking lot, parked Persephone, and pushed the button to open the side door and deploy the ramp. The door slid open exactly as it was supposed to. The ramp, however, apparently had other plans.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

I pushed the button again.

Still nothing.

The ramp remained firmly committed to not participating in the day's activities.

At first, I wasn't overly concerned. If you've followed Persephone's adventures for any length of time, you know that occasionally turning things off and back on actually does solve the problem. So I figured I would simply close the door, restart the van, and try again.

Except the door wouldn't close.

Not even a little bit.

Now I had a van sitting in the parking lot with the side door wide open, a ramp refusing to deploy, and the growing realization that I wasn't exactly going anywhere.

I couldn't drive with the door open.

I couldn't leave the van sitting there wide open.

And I certainly couldn't get out because the very thing designed to help me get out was currently refusing to do its job.

That was the moment when frustration started showing up. Not full-blown panic, but enough concern to know I was heading in that direction.

As I sat there trying to figure out what to do next, one of the instructors walked over.

"I felt some panic," she said. "I thought you might need some help."

For a moment, I just stared at her.

I hadn't asked for help.

I hadn't announced my predicament to the parking lot.

I hadn't gone looking for anyone.

Yet there she was because she had felt something was wrong.

Before class had even started.

Before we had done a single exercise that day.

Before I had said a word.

If Saturday had been building the case, Sunday morning felt like Exhibit A.

Together, we manually opened and closed the door several times, turned Persephone off and back on, and performed the highly technical troubleshooting process known as "let's see if this works."

Eventually, it did.

The door behaved.

The ramp deployed.

Persephone decided she was once again willing to fulfill her contractual obligations.

The crisis passed.

Class began.

And the evidence kept coming.

The rest of Sunday continued much the same way. More exercises. More confirmations. More moments where information matched reality in ways that were difficult to dismiss and impossible to ignore. With each exercise, the pile of receipts grew larger.

By the end of the weekend, I wasn't walking away with blind faith.

I wasn't walking away with a new belief system.

I wasn't walking away because somebody convinced me of anything.

I was walking away with evidence.

Lots and lots of evidence.

Enough evidence that even Mr. Stupid was beginning to run out of arguments.

Looking back, what strikes me most is that I went into the class knowing exactly what I needed. I needed trust. Not because intuition wasn't working. Not because the whisper wasn't there. I needed enough evidence to stop arguing with myself every time information arrived.

And somehow, over the course of one weekend, that is exactly what I received.

As usual, the Universe delivered exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it. Also as usual, it did not arrive wrapped in shiny paper with a bow.

It arrived disguised as a classroom, a parking lot, a stubborn van named Persephone, an instructor who could feel panic before I spoke a word, and a weekend full of receipts.

Funny how that keeps happening.

Mission Outcome: Trust significantly upgraded. Evidence overwhelming. Mr. Stupid's objections have been noted and filed. Persephone remains committed to providing hands-on educational opportunities whenever she feels the curriculum needs enhancement.