Knowing

Knowing can be described as a deep-seated wisdom that often defies logic but feels

profoundly true. It is intuitive, and you can often feel it in your body—like in your gut—or

as a calm state that settles deep in your bones.

Some people are deeply tuned into their knowing and use it frequently. Some of us may

only find it upon reflection, wish to develop it further, or long for it when feeling lost.

Knowing cannot be forced. But it can be cultivated—through stillness, meditation,

journaling, and by listening to yourself rather than external influences.

There are many types of knowing. Sometimes it arrives like a thunderous boom, while

other times it’s a subtle whisper—I think I hear you, and I’m going to try to listen.

There’s the recognition of knowing after ignoring it—Oh, I knew that wasn’t right, didn’t

I? And then there’s the calm elation, a grounded, often unspoken rightness, that comes

from following your knowing. It can feel ominous or joyful, and everything in between.

I once purchased a house based on a gut feeling. It was a wreck—a clear no at

first—but I decided to check it out anyway. Once inside, my perspective shifted entirely.

I trusted my intuition that this little place could be a gem. I felt calm and sure, despite

the chaos surrounding me.

The first time I met my spouse, there was a strong, undeniable alert—a loud spark of

energy that surprised me. I was dating someone else at the time and wasn’t looking for

anything new, but I couldn’t ignore it. I’m so glad I didn’t.

Then there was the indescribable knowing that time when the phone rang. Before I

picked up, I knew it was something big, something ominous.

Another time, I went to the Sally Ann thrift store, hoping for curtains for my front

porch—a nearly impossible task given the oddly shaped, drafty windows that wrapped

around two walls. At first search, there was nothing suitable. I was ready to give up

when a quiet instinct urged me to pause and look again. Suddenly, there they were.

(Where were they moments before?) There were just enough curtains to fit the peculiar

windows, and after hemming them, they fit perfectly.

The most satisfying part of the curtain experience wasn’t just finding them—it was the

recognition of the knowing and the sense of being guided. I notice now how often I

pause when I’m searching for something, whether in a store or elsewhere. That pause,

that moment of trust, often leads to delightful discoveries—things that seemed invisible

just moments earlier.

The time I lost my mom was not as easy. I should have taken better precautions; I

underestimated her cognitive decline. We were in the city—not our familiar small

town—and had rehearsed our meeting spot. I thought I had armed her with enough

clear instructions and trusted her self-proclaimed abilities.

When she wasn’t there, dread and panic set in. I felt the enormity of my mistake and

was desperate to find her. Standing on a corner, I closed my eyes and asked myself,

Which way do I go? There was no lightning bolt of certainty, just a subtle trust—a

willingness to follow. Terrified and desperate, I started walking. Five blocks later, I

spotted her, looking lost and scared (though she feigned calmness when we

hugged—but that’s another story). The gratitude in that moment was immense, and the

help I felt was undeniable.

Another day, I was feeling low, weighted with gloom and irritation. Journaling seemed

like the logical choice to sort through it, but a quiet thought nudged me to let it be. To

allow the discomfort and frustration to exist without getting tangled in it. There was a

knowing—a trust—that the clouds would part, and clarity would come.

At the time, it felt counterintuitive to trust this, especially since my instinct was to dive in,

to try to fix the problem. But the next morning, after an unusually restful sleep, I woke up

feeling completely turned around. The heaviness was gone, replaced by noticeable

lightness and clarity.

You might say this was just a natural resolution to a bad day, so how is it a knowing?

It’s in how it felt—the trust I leaned into during the discomfort, and the clarity that

followed. It feels like I can rely on this guidance system, especially when I’m lost. In

those moments, I don’t have to figure it all out—I can relax into my knowing.

Of course, my logical, cynical side argues this could all be coincidence or cause and

effect. Perhaps. But that feeling—that bone-deep comfort, the solidness that washes

over me—cannot be ignored. And I don’t want to ignore it. I want to celebrate it, invite it

in, cultivate it, and rely on it.

I want to know my knowing.

How has knowing shown up in your life, I'd love to hear about it. Comment below or message me directly.

Sue