This week, Cup of Jo editor and metaphysics enthusiast Caroline talked to an energy reader to get clarity on her love life. It was not what she expected. Here’s her story…
Confession: I believe in magic.
If you rifle through my belongings, you’ll find crystals, tarot cards and bundles of sage nestled among the more practical items. I love synchronicity and always try to think positively. So when my friend recommended an energy healer (and raved about her insights), I had to try it out.
Maria practices NET, or Neuro Emotional Technique, a branch of energy healing. Here’s how it works: First, you make a statement that you want to be true (e.g., “I’m okay with public speaking”). Next, Maria pinpoints the exact emotion you feel when you make the statement (e.g., “anxious”) and works to neutralize the feeling. Maria describes her job as finding her client’s “core woundings” and helping them re-adjust their patterns.
I settle into a sunny patch on my couch—hoping the warmth will translate into good energy—and dial Maria’s number. That’s right: she’s going to read my energy from the other side of the continent.
“What’s going on?” she asks. I feel momentarily paralyzed, like when someone says, “Tell me about yourself,” at a job interview. A lot of things are going on. Where do I begin?
To get the ball rolling, I talk about some recent challenges in my love life. There is a long pause. Did I get too personal? Finally, Maria tells me I don’t actually want what I think I want. According to her, something deep down in my core doesn’t want to be in a relationship.
She instructs me to say, “I’m okay getting married.” I do. She laughs an uproarious laugh. “Your nervous system did NOT like that.”
Next, she asks me to visualize my own proposal. “How do you feel?” she asks. I decide to be honest. “Like I’m going to throw up.”
Then things start to get interesting. “Why do you hate men?” she asks. “I don’t hate men,” I protest, because I don’t! (Also because this seems like the correct response.)
“But you do,” she insists. Try saying, “I’m okay with men.” I say it three times. She tells me the emotion that’s coming up is disdain. Eek.
“I guess…” I venture, “In a romantic context, I’ve generally found most men to be…disappointing.”
She instructs me to place my left hand on my right wrist and my right palm on my forehead. “Try to feel as much disdain as you possibly can. Picture the experiences in which you’ve been disappointed. Do that until the feeling subsides.”
I sit there, holding my own head, sifting through memories, trying to conjure up as much contempt as possible. It is surprisingly easy. There was my very first boyfriend, way back in third grade, who dumped me for the new girl in town. “She’s prettier than you,” he offered by way of explanation, thus gifting me with a life-long wariness of shallow guys. There was the date who told me I shouldn’t wear sandals in public because my little toe looked weird. There was the string of legitimate heartbreaks littered throughout my twenties. Maybe she’s right, I think. Maybe I do hate men.
After a few minutes, though, the feeling subsides. “I feel better!” I announce with triumph. Once again, I am instructed to say “I’m okay with men.” This time, I do it with conviction. Maria seems pleased.
“So do you want to do something a little funky?” she asks. Hold up: Am I not already doing something funky? But yes, I am game.
Next, she walks me through a guided meditation in which I ride an elevator back through my life, down to when I am eight years old. Third-grade me exits the elevator onto a playground, where I confront my little-boy nemesis and, after an imagined conversation, walk away with the promise that everything will be okay, that love and commitment are real, and that I am worthy of them.
By now, our time is almost up. She asks me how I feel.
“Better?” I venture. It is more of a question than a statement. I do feel better, but I also feel kind of skeptical…like I’m discussing an imaginary elevator with a stranger who is 2,500 miles away.
She is satisfied with my response for now. “I see that your patterns were in place long before you were born,” she tells me. “These feelings are very deep—they go back over 1,500 years, to a past life. Next time, we can work to unpack some of that.”
Maybe, I think. And maybe not.
In the meantime, though: I’m okay with men.
Have you ever talked to an energy reader? Would you want to? Would love to hear!