Before you speak,
before you reason,
before your mind arranges words into meaning—
you feel.
Something rises.
A yes.
A no.
A pull,
a pause,
a quiet sense of what’s right
or wrong
or necessary.
It doesn’t ask for permission.
It doesn’t wait to be proven.
It simply appears—
fully formed,
yet often unexplained.
This is intuition.
The knowing that comes without asking.
And though we’re taught to trust logic,
to lean on proof,
to stand only on what can be measured—
intuition reminds us:
not all truth arrives as evidence.
Some truth arrives
as a whisper.
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The Shape of Silent Knowing
Intuition lives deep.
In the body.
In the past.
In the places memory forgets,
but still instructs.
It speaks the language of pattern,
of experience woven over time.
The kind of knowing
that isn’t told—
it’s felt.
• A stranger enters a room,
and something tightens in your chest.
• You’re offered a deal that sounds perfect,
but something inside says, “Wait.”
• You meet someone new,
and without words,
you already trust them.
This is not magic.
It’s not guesswork.
It’s a quiet form of wisdom.
But one we must learn to interpret.
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The Gift and the Risk
Intuitions can guide us.
But they can also mislead us.
They’re shaped by past wounds,
by culture,
by survival.
Sometimes they protect.
Sometimes they project.
The danger is not in having intuitions.
The danger is in mistaking them for infallible truth.
Because not every feeling is sacred.
Some are echoes of fear,
not glimpses of clarity.
The gift of intuition
is not that it is always right—
but that it invites us to look closer.
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Listening Without Worship
To live with intuition
is to listen
without worshipping.
To feel
without obeying blindly.
It is to ask:
• What is this sensation trying to tell me?
• Is it grounded in truth,
or in past pain?
• Does this knowing serve only me,
or does it include others?
Intuition is a starting point—
not the finish line.
It is the soul’s first signal,
not the final answer.
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When We’ve Forgotten How to Feel
In a world that moves fast,
that prizes certainty,
that distrusts what cannot be proven—
intuition becomes dim.
We start asking others for answers
we once felt in our own bodies.
We mistrust the part of us
that knows without knowing why.
But intuition can return.
Through silence.
Through attention.
Through rebuilding trust with ourselves.
It is not a perfect compass.
But it is a deeply human one.
And sometimes,
it knows before we do.
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A Closing Reflection
If you feel something stirring—
a quiet yes,
a stubborn no,
a hesitation without reason—
pause.
Ask:
• What is this trying to protect?
• What history might it carry?
• Can I trust it—at least enough to explore it?
Because intuition is not an enemy of reason.
It is the doorway that leads to it.
It is not the end of thinking.
It is how honest thinking begins.
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And in the end, intuition reminds us
that the mind does not always arrive first.
That some truths rise
not from argument,
but from presence.
And when we learn to hold that presence
with curiosity instead of control,
we do not become less rational—
we become more whole.
Because a truly wise life
is not one that silences intuition,
but one that listens to it,
challenges it,
and honors it
as the first language of our becoming.