When my mum died in September 2013, I desperately wished I could speak to her again, but I didn’t believe in an afterlife. I was a total cynic; I couldn’t feel her presence, nor did I connect to a spiritual realm. Then, five years ago, a friend who had recently visited a psychic helped me see that death may not be the end of our existence after all.
When my friend Katy lost her mum suddenly, she sought the help of a medium because she felt there was so much left unsaid – and she wanted the opportunity for closure. I thought either Katy was a bit gullible or the psychic was merely cashing in on the desperation of a grieving daughter. But Katy told me that after months of anguish over losing her mum, she finally felt at peace after being able to say her goodbyes.
I was still suspicious; surely the medium told Katy what she wanted to hear. Katy claimed the psychic knew very specific details about her mum that couldn’t be found online. I was intrigued and wondered if I could benefit from a psychic reading.
My mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer 14 months before she died, and while we had a chance to prepare for the end, it was still utterly devastating when she passed away. After her death, I became completely untethered, hitting the self-sabotage button hard and drinking heavily to numb the pain of grief.
When people told me she was in “a better place,” I thought, “I hope she can’t see what I’m doing to myself; it would break her heart.”
“Why was I upset after what he’d done to me?”
Katy gave me the psychic's email address, and I figured I had nothing to lose (except the £50 cost for the session) – so I messaged to make an appointment.
I deliberately used an email address with a fictional surname I had created years ago. Using an incorrect name would prevent digging into my background, as I had written a lot about losing my mum. Yes, I was being sneaky, but she wouldn’t need to do any research if she was genuinely psychic.
When I arrived for the appointment, I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotion. I wanted to know if Mum was OK, but I also wanted to find out if she was proud of me for turning my life around. I think my therapist would have had a field day if she’d known I was still looking for maternal validation from beyond the grave.
The psychic, Marion, was not how I imagined her; she was a petite woman in her early 60s, wearing jeans and a jumper. She looked like she was about to pop to the supermarket, not commune with the dead.
After brief introductions, Marion became quiet. She closed her eyes and concentrated hard like she was trying to hear a faraway conversation. She described some people she could see in the room with us: a woman with curly black hair, a tall man with white hair, a young girl and a man in his 40s with red hair. She mentioned initials that were unfamiliar to me. None of these people were my mum.
Marion then said, “You’re here about your mum.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact.
“Yes,” I respond. My body language was closed off, and I felt scepticism radiating off me as I answered.
“The others are here to support Louise. We’re just waiting for her to arrive.”
Louise is my mum. Had I told Marion her name? I couldn’t remember.
We waited a few minutes, and then, “Louise is here with us now. She’s happy to see you, but she wants to know if you’re still angry.”
I took a deep breath. Yes, I was furious that the kindest, funniest, most brilliant person I knew was struck down with terminal cancer at the age of 58. I was enraged that she missed watching her precious grandchildren, my brother’s kids, grow up. I was also angry that she left me. I wasn’t finished being her daughter.
“Yes, I am angry. But not as much as I was.”
“She wants you to know she is proud of you; that’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”
I decided to start asking my own questions, “What exactly is she proud of?”
“She says she’s proud you stopped drinking, pudding.”
Advice if you, too, are grieving this Mother's Day.
The last word hit me like a bolt of lightning. Pudding was my mum’s nickname for me. How the hell did Marion know that? I felt myself start to well up. Was mum really here? Marion continued, “She says she couldn’t save her parents, but she’s glad you saved yourself.” I started to cry.
My mum’s parents both died from alcohol abuse when she was in her twenties. Much like being called “pudding” well into adulthood, my maternal grandparents drinking themselves to death wasn’t common knowledge.
As I sobbed, Marion continued to speak, but I became distracted by a new sensation — I could feel Mum’s presence. It felt like I was being enveloped in a warm towel after coming out of a cold pool. I felt comforted and loved. I never wanted that feeling to end.
The 50 minutes I spent with Marion passed in a blur, and she kept bringing other people into the conversation, like a friend I lost the year before. Of course, I missed my friend, but I was desperate to spend time with mum and got irritated when other people drifted in and out.
I left the session feeling utterly exhausted. I felt satisfied that Mum was OK (well, as OK as a dead person can be…), and I knew that it would take time to process what had happened. I didn’t tell any of my friends other than Katy what had happened, in case they made fun of me for believing I had spoken with my dead mother. Over the next few days, I felt mentally lighter, and a calm descended over me for the first time in years.
As someone with a history of addiction, I thought hard about whether to make a follow-up appointment, believing I could easily get hooked on spiritual readings. After speaking with Katy, we agreed we didn’t need to see Marion again. I miss my mum every single day, but I recognise that I may have become so fixated on talking to the dead that I might forget how to live, which would be a real tragedy.
