Opening: When You Don't Trust What You Know

Maybe you've been second-guessing yourself.

That feeling in your gut that something's off, but everyone's telling you it's fine. That knowing about which direction to go, but you can't explain why, so you override it. That sense of "I see what's happening here" but you talk yourself out of it because you don't have proof.

And then later—weeks or months or years later—you think: I knew. I actually knew. Why didn't I trust it?

I do this constantly. Like, embarrassingly often.

Last week I knew I needed to cancel something. Knew it in my body, in that space between my eyebrows that gets tight when something's wrong. But did I cancel it? No. I spent two days trying to talk myself into going anyway because I couldn't justify the cancellation with logic.

Made a pros and cons list. Asked three different people what they thought. Googled whether my reason was "valid enough." Spent an entire evening trying to convince myself that gut feelings aren't real information.

Finally—FINALLY—I canceled it. Two hours before I was supposed to show up.

Felt immediate relief. That full-body exhale of "oh thank god I don't have to do that."

And then the thing I was worried about? Happened exactly like I knew it would. The whole situation went sideways in precisely the way my body had been trying to warn me about.

And I sat there thinking: SEE? You KNEW. You knew a week ago. You knew the moment you committed to it. Why didn't you just trust yourself? But no, you needed three people and Google and a pros/cons list to tell you your own knowing was correct.

I wanted to be mad at myself. But mostly I was just tired. Tired of not trusting what I see. Tired of pretending I don't know things I absolutely know.

And everyone's got their theories about intuition. "Trust your gut." "Listen to your inner voice." "Your body knows."

Cool. Great. But HOW? How do you trust what you know when you can't explain how you know it? How do you tell the difference between intuition and fear? Between clear seeing and wishful thinking? Between "my body is warning me" and "my anxiety is lying to me"?

Because sometimes they feel really similar. And we've overridden our knowing so many times that we're not even sure we can recognize it anymore.

The ancient yogis had something to say about this. They called it the third eye.

The Eye That Sees Without Looking

In Hindu and yogic tradition—and I'm still learning about this from teachers who actually know what they're talking about, so bear with me—there's this concept of ajna (AHJ-nah, and honestly I'm probably still not saying it perfectly even after all this time).

The sixth chakra. The third eye. The command center.

It sits right here, between your eyebrows. That space that gets tight when you're concentrating too hard. That point where you feel pressure when something's trying to get your attention. When you're seeing something you don't want to see.

This is where Shiva's third eye rests. In the mythology, Shiva has three eyes—two that see the physical world, and one that sees through everything. Past, present, future. Truth underneath illusion. The reality behind the appearance. The thing everyone's pretending isn't happening but totally is.

When Shiva opens his third eye, things burn. Not because the eye is destructive, but because it sees so clearly that illusions can't survive its gaze. Lies dissolve. Pretense crumbles. You can't hide from what the third eye sees.

Which is probably why we keep ours closed most of the time, honestly.

Ajna means "command" or "perceive." It's the place where you know things before you know how you know them. Where you see without looking. Where truth arrives before evidence. Where you're like "I don't know WHY I know this, but I know it."

My teacher once told me: "The third eye doesn't show you what you want to see. It shows you what's actually there. That's why people are so afraid to open it."

Today we're going to that place. To the temple where the third eye opens. Where we stop pretending we don't know what we know.

Not to become psychic or mystical or special. Just to remember: we see more clearly than we're willing to admit. We know more than we let ourselves trust.

And maybe—just maybe—we can start believing ourselves.

Before You Begin

Find your seat. However you need to be—cross-legged, chair, couch with the cat trying to sit on you. Lock yourself in the bathroom if you have to. I won't judge.

Just somewhere you can be still for a bit without someone needing you.

Let your breath settle into its natural rhythm. Don't force anything. Just notice how you're breathing right now.

Bring your attention to the space between your eyebrows. That point where you feel pressure sometimes. Where things get tight when you're trying to see something clearly or when you're avoiding seeing something at all.

Breathe there. With each exhale, let that space soften. Open. Stop clenching against whatever you've been refusing to see.

And just notice: What have you been pretending not to know?

What's the thing you actually see but keep talking yourself out of seeing? The thing you know but keep questioning? The truth that's right there but you keep asking other people if it's really true?

We don't have to answer that yet. Just acknowledge it's there. Sitting in that space between your brows, waiting for you to finally look at it directly.

When you're ready—or when you're ready enough, because you'll never feel fully ready—let your awareness settle into that space between your brows.

...

The Threshold

We find ourselves standing at the base of a mountain at twilight.

The sky above us is deep indigo—that color between day and night, between waking and dreaming. Between seeing and pretending we don't see.

A narrow path winds up the mountainside. Worn smooth by countless feet before ours. Apparently we're not the only ones who've been avoiding what we know.

We begin to climb.

Each step, we leave something behind. An explanation we've been clinging to. A justification for ignoring ourselves. A need to prove what we know with logic and evidence and three people's opinions.

Our mind grows quieter. Our body lighter. Like we're shedding weight we didn't know we were carrying.

The air smells like stone and time. Like the inside of a temple that's older than memory and infinitely patient.

...

The Ascent

The path spirals upward. Sometimes steep. Sometimes gentle. We don't rush.

We pass other travelers coming down. They meet our eyes and nod. They've seen something. We can tell. There's a weight to them, a clarity. They carry what they saw carefully, like water in cupped hands, trying not to spill it before they get back to their regular lives.

We keep climbing.

The indigo sky deepens. Stars begin to appear. Not the stars we know from our actual sky—these pulse with their own living light. They're watching. Witnessing our climb. Waiting to see if we'll actually let ourselves see what we came here to see.

And we realize: this path isn't new. We've been here before.

Every time we've trusted what we know without knowing how. Every time we've seen clearly despite having no evidence. Every time we've let ourselves know the truth before the story about the truth. Every time we've said "I just know" and actually believed it.

This is that path. We're just finally acknowledging we're on it. Finally admitting we know the way because we've walked it before.

...

The Gate

The path ends at a massive stone gate. No door. Just an archway carved with symbols we almost recognize. They shift when we try to focus on them, like they're written in a language we used to speak but forgot.

Above the arch, a single eye carved in stone. Closed.

We stand before it. Waiting. Not sure what we're waiting for. Permission, maybe? Proof that we're allowed to see? Evidence that we're worthy of knowing?

Then we remember: We don't need permission to see what we already see.

We've been seeing all along. We've just been pretending we haven't. Asking everyone else to confirm what we already know. Waiting for someone to give us permission to trust ourselves.

Take a breath here. Notice that space between your brows. Is it warm? Tight? Buzzing? Pulsing? Just notice. Don't judge it.

We step forward. Through the gate. Into—

...

The Temple

A vast circular chamber carved from living rock. The ceiling opens to the night sky. That indigo darkness pouring in like liquid.

In the center, a pool of still water. Perfectly, impossibly still. Reflecting the stars above like a mirror.

Around the pool, seven pillars. Each one holds a flame. The flames don't flicker. They burn steady. Eternal. Like they've been burning since the beginning of seeing, waiting for us to arrive.

The air hums. Not a sound exactly. A frequency. We feel it in our bones. In that space between our brows. In our chest. In the base of our spine. In that place in our gut that knows things.

This is the temple of inner sight. The place where we see without looking. Know without evidence. Understand without explanation.

We've been here before. Every time we've trusted ourselves. Every time we've known.

We just kept leaving. Kept pretending we'd never been here. Kept acting like we needed to ask permission to return.

...

The Pool

We approach the water. Look down into it.

At first, we see our reflection. But then... it shifts.

The surface shows us something else. Not with our eyes. With that other sight. The one that knows without proof. The one we've been ignoring.

What does the pool show?

Maybe an image from the past we'd forgotten. A moment that mattered more than we realized. A time we saw clearly but didn't act on what we saw.

Maybe a choice we've been avoiding. The one we already know we need to make but keep pretending we don't. The one we've asked seventeen people about, hoping someone will tell us what we already know.

Maybe a truth we've been dancing around. Something about ourselves, about someone else, about a situation we're in. Something everyone can see but we keep insisting isn't there.

Maybe a person who matters. Someone we've been seeing clearly but refusing to acknowledge what we see. Because seeing clearly would mean having to do something about it.

Maybe a path we haven't admitted we want. The direction we know we're supposed to go but keep talking ourselves out of because we can't justify it with logic.

Or maybe... nothing. Clear water. Empty space. And that emptiness is the message. The thing we know is that we don't know yet. And that's okay too.

Sit here for a moment. Let the pool show what it shows.

Don't force it. Don't make something up because you think you're supposed to see something profound. Don't perform spiritual revelation.

Just witness. Let yourself see what's actually there. Or not there. Either way.

...

Whatever the pool shows—or doesn't show—we don't judge it. We just witness.

This is what our third eye has been trying to show us. This is what we already knew. This is what we've been seeing but refusing to look at directly.

The pool doesn't give us new information. It just shows us what we've been seeing but refusing to acknowledge. What we've been knowing but pretending we don't.

...

The Gift

As we watch, something rises from the center of the pool.

An object. Small enough to hold in one hand. Breaking through that perfectly still surface.

It hovers there in the air above the water. Waiting.

This is our gift. Our reminder. The thing we need to carry back down the mountain. The symbol of what we know. What we see. What we're finally—finally—willing to trust.

Reach out. What is it?

A stone? A key? A feather? A mirror? A compass? Something else entirely that makes no logical sense but feels absolutely right?

Whatever it is, it's yours. Close your fingers around it.

Feel its weight in your palm. Its texture. Its temperature. Is it smooth or rough? Heavy or light? Warm or cool?

It's ours now. The symbol of what we know. What we're finally willing to see.

What does it mean? Your first answer—the one that comes before you think—that's the true one.

...

The Voice

From behind us, a presence. Not threatening. Ancient. Patient. Like it's been waiting here forever for us to finally show up.

We don't turn around. We don't need to see to know. Some things we just know.

A voice—neither male nor female, neither young nor old, just... presence speaking—asks:

"What are you pretending not to know?"

Our answer rises without thinking. The truth before the story about the truth. Before the justification. Before the "but maybe I'm wrong" and the "I need to think about this more."

The thing we've been seeing but refusing to admit we see.

What is it?

Say it. Out loud if you can. Silently if you have to. But say it. Name what you know.

Not what you think. Not what you suspect. Not what you're afraid of.

What you KNOW.

The presence doesn't respond. Doesn't validate or invalidate our answer. It was never a question that needed answering anyway. It was an invitation to stop pretending. To finally admit what we've been seeing all along.

And in the speaking—in the naming of what we know—something shifts.

The space between our brows gets warmer. Clearer. More open. Like a door we've been holding shut finally swinging wide.

We've stopped pretending. At least for this moment. At least in this temple. At least right now.

...

The Descent

We turn from the pool. Walk back through the temple. Through the stone gate.

The carved eye above the arch? Open now. Watching us leave. Witnessing that we've seen. That we've stopped pretending. That we're carrying our knowing back down into the world where we'll need it most.

We begin our descent down the mountain path.

The gift is still in our hand. Getting heavier with each step. More real. More solid. Like it's absorbing weight from the air, becoming more and more tangible as we return to the world where things have to be explained and justified and proven.

Each step down, we return a little more to our body. To this room. To this moment. To our actual life with its demands and questions and people who ask "but how do you know?"

But we don't forget what we saw. What we know. What we're no longer pretending not to know.

The path spirals downward. The indigo sky begins to lighten at the edges. Dawn approaching. The return to the world where we'll have to trust what we saw even when other people question it.

We're bringing the seeing back with us. Into the daylight. Into the ordinary. Into the places where we'll need it most. Where we'll be tempted to unsee it again. To ask other people if what we know is real. To make pros and cons lists instead of trusting our sight.

This is the hard part. Not seeing. But trusting what we saw when we're back in regular life. When three people tell us we're wrong. When logic doesn't support it. When we can't explain how we know.

But we've seen. We've named it. We're carrying it back.

...

The Return

The mountain fades.

We're aware of our breath again. Our actual body in this actual seat. The ground beneath us. The sounds in the room. Whatever normal life is doing while we've been gone.

Feel your sit bones. Your feet flat on the floor. Your hands in your lap. Come all the way back. Don't rush it, but don't hide in the in-between space either.

Bring your hands to your heart if that feels right. Or not. Do what your body wants.

The gift we carried down the mountain—it's inside us now. Part of us. The symbol of what we know. What we see. What we're finally willing to trust.

Take three breaths. Or five. Or just one really good one. Whatever you need.

And maybe—just maybe—let yourself trust what you already know.

Let yourself see what you've been seeing.

Let yourself act on what you know without waiting for permission or proof or three people's validation.

Whisper it if you want: "I trust what I know."

Or don't. Sometimes the knowing doesn't need words. Sometimes it just needs acknowledgment.

Thank you. To the mountain. To the pool. To the part of us that sees. To the part that's always known. To the part that's been waiting so patiently for us to finally trust it.

And slowly... gently... without any performance about it... come all the way back.

...

Coming Back

Take a breath. Feel your actual body. Here. Now. Grounded. Real.

Notice what's beneath you. What's touching your skin. The temperature of the air. The sounds around you. Your heartbeat. Your breath.

The Temple of Inner Sight is inside us. It's always been inside us. That pool is always there, showing us what we need to see. We just have to stop pretending we don't see it.

Flex your fingers. Wiggle your toes. Maybe stretch a little. Roll your shoulders. Do that thing where you crack your neck because you've been sitting still for too long.

When you're ready—no rush, but also don't hide here—let yourself fully return to this space. This moment. This life that's waiting for you to trust what you know.

We're here.

And we know something now. Or we've stopped pretending we don't know it. Which is really the same thing.

Integration: The Questions That Matter

Grab your journal. Your phone. A napkin. Whatever works. This stuff matters too much to just let it float away.

Part 1: What You Saw (Witness)

What did the pool show you?

Get specific. Image, person, moment, truth—what was it? Even if it doesn't make sense yet, write it down. Don't edit it. Don't make it prettier or more spiritual. Just name what you saw.

The gift that rose from the water—what was it?

Describe it. What did it feel like in your hand? Heavy? Light? Warm? Cold? Rough? Smooth?

What does that gift symbolize?

What is it trying to tell you about what you know? Your first answer—before you think it through—that's the true one. Write that.

When the voice asked "What are you pretending not to know?"—what did you answer?

What's the thing you've been seeing but refusing to admit you see? The thing you already know but keep questioning?

How long have you been doing this?

Pretending you don't see what you absolutely see? Be honest—is this a Tuesday thing or a ten-year thing? When did you first see it and decide to unsee it?

Part 2: Your Pattern of (Not) Trusting (Recognize)

When have you trusted your inner knowing before?

When did you see something clearly and act on it, even without evidence? What happened? Did it turn out you were right?

When have you overridden what you knew?

Talked yourself out of what you saw? Made the pros and cons list, asked three people, Googled it, and then did the thing anyway even though your gut said no?

What was the cost of not trusting yourself?

Be specific—what actually happened? Not "bad things" but "this specific thing happened and it hurt in this specific way."

Now here's the harder question: Pick three things you "knew" in the past year.

Which ones were actually true? Which ones were fear masquerading as knowing? Which ones were projection or wishful thinking?

Looking back NOW, what's the difference between them? How did true knowing feel different from fear-based "knowing"?

What's the difference between intuition and fear for you?

How do they feel different in your body? Where do you feel each one?

Get specific—"intuition feels like [describe the sensation] in [specific place in body]" and "fear feels like [different sensation] in [different place]."

This matters. Learning the difference is how you actually start trusting your inner sight instead of just following every anxious thought.

Part 3: What Stops You (Investigate)

What are you afraid will happen if you trust what you see?

If you act on what you know without waiting for permission or proof or validation? Name the actual fear. "If I trust what I know, then..."

Be specific. Not "bad things will happen" but "I will have to [leave / start / stop / face / admit] this specific thing."

Now flip it: What's the worst thing that could happen if you trusted your knowing and were wrong?

Really think about it. What's the actual worst case scenario? Write it down.

Now—be honest—what's the worst thing that's ALREADY happened when you DIDN'T trust your knowing?

When you overrode what you saw. When you stayed when your body said leave. When you committed when your gut said run. When you said yes when everything in you was screaming no.

Which is actually worse? Being wrong while trusting yourself? Or being right but not trusting yourself?

Who taught you not to trust your inner sight?

Where did you learn that what you know isn't enough? Get specific here—actual people, actual moments, actual times you were told "you can't possibly know that" or "you're being dramatic" or "you're overthinking it" or "you need to be logical about this."

Who benefited from you not trusting yourself?

Who got to keep their power because you doubted your sight? Who stayed comfortable because you questioned your knowing?

And here's the question that might sting: Who benefits NOW from you not trusting yourself?

Who loses power when you see clearly? Who gets uncomfortable when you stop asking for permission? Who prefers you doubtful and questioning yourself?

This isn't about blaming them. This is about seeing the system you're in. The relational dynamics where your not-knowing serves someone else's comfort.

Part 4: The Shadow Side (Discern)

Okay, now for the uncomfortable part. The part where we get really honest.

What if what you "know" is actually serving your ego?

Your need to be right? Your need to feel special or intuitive or spiritually advanced? Your need to avoid something harder to see?

Because sometimes what we call "inner knowing" is actually just... preference. Or avoidance. Or the story we're telling ourselves because it's more comfortable than the truth.

The third eye shows you what's actually there—including uncomfortable truths about yourself.

What have you been refusing to see about YOUR OWN role in your patterns? Not what other people are doing. What YOU'RE doing.

What if the pool was showing you something about yourself you didn't want to see? What might that be?

Your inner sight might show you things about other people.

Things they're not ready to see about themselves. Things they're hiding. Things that are true but painful.

What's your responsibility to what you see?

When do you speak it? When do you stay silent? How do you hold what you see without weaponizing it or using it to feel superior?

This is important. Seeing clearly isn't permission to judge everyone. It's responsibility to see with compassion—including what you see in yourself.

Part 5: What Actually Changes (Integrate)

What would change if you stopped pretending?

If you trusted what you know without needing to justify it? Be specific—not "things would be different" but "I would have to [leave this / start this / stop doing this / face this]."

What actual concrete thing would be different in your life tomorrow if you trusted what you saw in the pool?

Not theoretically. Practically. What one thing would you do differently?

Here's your practice for the next week:

Notice three times you start to override your knowing. Just notice. Don't judge yourself. Don't try to fix it yet. Just write down:

What did I know?

What did I do instead?

What was I afraid would happen if I trusted myself?

What actually happened because I didn't trust myself?

Just witness the pattern. That's the first step.

And here's the harder practice:

Choose ONE thing you know right now that you've been pretending not to know. Just one. The thing the pool showed you. The thing the voice asked you about. The thing you're carrying down the mountain.

For the next three days, act as if you trust it completely.

Not forever. Not a life-altering permanent decision. Just three days of living as if you trust what you know.

What changes? What gets easier? What gets harder? What becomes clear?

Write about it. Every day. "Today I acted as if I trusted what I know, and..."

Part 6: Who Walks With You (Connect)

When you trust your inner sight, how does it affect your relationships?

Who supports you seeing clearly? Who celebrates when you trust yourself? Who says "I'm proud of you for listening to yourself"?

And who gets uncomfortable? Who tries to talk you out of what you know? Who needs you to doubt yourself?

This tells you something important about which relationships support your growth and which ones require your smallness.

Who can you tell about what you saw in the pool?

Who can you trust with this? Who won't try to talk you out of it or explain it away or need you to prove it?

Find that person. Tell them. Say: "I saw something. I know something. I need you to believe me even if I can't explain how I know."

And if you don't have that person? That tells you something too. About what kind of relationships you need to cultivate.

Who can check in with you?

Who can you ask to notice when you're overriding your knowing? Who will gently say "Hey, what do YOU know about this? Before you ask me, what does your gut say?"

Give someone permission to call you out lovingly when you're Googling whether your intuition is scientifically valid instead of just trusting it.

Part 7: The Long Game (Commit)

That space between your brows right now—how does it feel?

Open? Tight? Buzzing? Warm? Pulsing? Aching? This is your third eye. It's always been seeing. You've just been ignoring it.

Touch that space. Put your fingers there. This is your inner sight. Your command center. Your knowing place.

Make it a practice: When you catch yourself asking someone else for validation of what you already know, pause.

Put your hand on that space between your brows. Take one breath. Ask yourself: "What do I actually see here? What do I already know?"

Write down what comes BEFORE you ask anyone else.

You don't have to act on it yet. Just practice noticing that you know. That you see. That you have your own inner sight.

How will you know, a month from now, that this pathworking actually changed something?

What will be different in how you move through your life? Be specific. Not "I'll trust myself more" but "I will notice when I start to Google whether my feelings are valid and I will stop myself."

What's the actual measurable difference? How will you know this mattered?

And here's the truth:

Trusting your inner sight doesn't mean always being right. It means being willing to see what's there and act on it anyway. Being willing to be wrong while trusting yourself rather than being right while doubting yourself.

The third eye doesn't guarantee you'll never make a mistake. It guarantees you'll see clearly. What you do with what you see—that's still your choice. And sometimes you'll choose wrong. And that's okay. That's human.

The practice isn't perfect knowing. It's trusting your sight enough to act on it. Trusting yourself enough to look at what's actually there, even when it's uncomfortable. Trusting that you see more clearly than you're willing to admit.

Final Practice: The Daily Return

For the next 30 days—or for as long as you remember—do this:

Morning:

Touch the space between your brows. Ask: "What do I know today that I'm pretending not to know?"

Write down whatever comes. Don't analyze it. Don't explain it away. Just write it.

Evening:

Touch the space between your brows again. Ask: "Today, when did I trust what I saw? When did I override it? What did I learn?"

Write that too.

That's it. That's the practice. Witnessing your sight. Witnessing when you trust it and when you don't. Learning the difference between clear seeing and fear. Building the muscle of trusting what you know.

The pool is always there. The temple is always waiting. Your third eye is always seeing.

The question is just: Are you willing to look at what it's showing you?

Are you willing to trust what you see?

Are you willing to act on what you know, even when you can't explain how you know it?

A Final Note

Ajna—the third eye, the command center, the space between your brows that gets tight when you're seeing something you don't want to see—isn't about becoming psychic or mystical or special.

It's about trusting what you already see. What you've always seen. What you know before you know how you know it.

And here's what I'm still learning, still struggling with, still getting wrong half the time:

The third eye doesn't show you what you want to see. It shows you what's actually there.

That's why we avoid it. That's why we pretend we don't see. That's why we override our knowing with logic and other people's opinions and endless research and pros/cons lists and Google searches about whether gut feelings are scientifically valid.

Because seeing clearly means we have to act on what we see.

And acting on what we know—without proof, without permission, without justification, without being able to explain how we know—is terrifying.

What if we're wrong? What if we trust ourselves and it turns out we misread everything? What if our knowing isn't real?

But here's the thing I'm slowly, painfully learning:

We're usually not wrong. Our inner sight is usually showing us exactly what we need to see. We're usually right about what we know.

The times we get it "wrong"? Usually it's because we overrode our knowing. Talked ourselves out of what we saw. Did the thing even though our body said no. Stayed in the situation even though our gut said leave. Committed to something even though every cell in our body was screaming "this isn't it."

The pool is always there. The temple is always waiting. Your third eye is always seeing, whether you acknowledge it or not.

The only question is: Are you willing to stop pretending you don't see what you see?

Are you willing to trust your inner sight, even when you can't explain it?

Are you willing to know what you know?

I'm still working on it. Still catching myself mid-Google, mid-pros-and-cons-list, mid-"let me ask three more people" and realizing: wait, I already know the answer. I've known it the whole time. I'm just scared to trust it.

But at least now I notice. At least now the temple is visible. At least now I know where to go when I need to remember that I see more clearly than I admit.

May you see clearly.

May you trust what you see.

May you act with the certainty of someone who knows—really knows—the truth.

Even when you can't explain how you know it. Especially then.

🕉️