Episode 61
What if some things you’ve labelled as worry are actually a form of perception that you haven’t yet learned how to interpret?
And what if the real practice isn’t blindly trusting every thought you have—but learning to discern the difference between fear-based projection and pattern-based perception?
That’s what we’re exploring today.
If you’re ready to join me, pull up a comfy chair, invite in your soul, and be open to receive exactly what you need to live, be and thrive as the embodied soul you are.
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Over the past few months, something curious happened.
Three different people, completely independently of one another, told me essentially the same thing.
“Joanne, you worry too much.”
“Joanne, you don’t need to worry so much.”
“Joanne, don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”
The first time someone said it, I was genuinely surprised.
I remember thinking, I don’t think of myself as a worrier.
I’m actually really aware of the thoughts I think. I’m aware of how beliefs shape our experience. I’m aware of how patterns repeat themselves when we don’t bring them into consciousness.
So I brushed it off.
Then a second person said it.
And because they knew the first person, I assumed they were simply repeating what they had already heard.
But then, a month or so later, a completely unrelated person said the exact same thing.
And that got my attention.
Because whenever life repeats something enough times, I’ve learned it’s usually worth listening.
Not automatically believing.
Not automatically rejecting.
But investigating.
So I began asking myself:
Is this true?
Am I worrying?
What exactly am I doing that other people are perceiving as worry?
And what I discovered surprised me.
Because yes, from the outside, I can absolutely understand why it looked like worry.
But from the inside, it felt very different.
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As I began reflecting on it, I realized that what I was experiencing wasn’t what I would traditionally call worry.
Worry, for me, tends to live in my head.
It’s mental.
It loops.
It revisits the same concern over and over again.
It carries anxiety.
It carries urgency.
It wants resolution.
It wants certainty.
It wants control.
What I was noticing felt completely different.
Instead, I would receive a quick image.
Sometimes a brief inner movie.
Sometimes simply a knowing.
A very neutral knowing.
Not emotional.
Not dramatic.
Not fearful.
Just a sense of:
“If this choice is made, this is likely where it leads.”
And the more I sat with that distinction, the more I began to realize that perhaps what I was experiencing was not worry at all.
Perhaps it was what I would call pattern-based perception.
Or what some people might describe as timeline tracking.
Not because I was seeing some fixed future.
Not because I was predicting an inevitable outcome.
But because I could perceive the trajectory of a pattern.
I could see how one choice naturally led to another, and another, and another.
Almost like seeing further down a path than someone else was currently looking.
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One of the most important things I realized was this:
The perception itself wasn’t fearful.
The fear came afterward.
The perception would arrive very matter-of-factly.
Almost as though the vaster version of myself was simply saying:
“If this, then this.”
No judgment.
No right or wrong.
No emotional charge.
Just information.
But then my personality would step in.
My preferences would step in.
My desire for a different outcome would step in.
And suddenly there would be urgency.
A desire to stop something.
Prevent something.
Fix something.
Convince someone.
And I began to see that I had been blending those two experiences together.
The perception.
And my reaction to the perception.
They’re not the same thing.
And that distinction feels important.
Because I suspect many of us are opening to greater levels of perception.
Not necessarily in dramatic ways.
Not necessarily in ways that fit neatly into spiritual language.
But in practical ways.
Through patterns.
Through body knowing.
Through dreams.
Through hunches.
Through images.
Through sudden insights.
Through the quiet recognition that something doesn’t quite fit. Or that something is likely to unfold in a particular direction if no changes are made.
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One particular experience helped me understand this more clearly.
There was a situation involving a tree that we were intentionally protecting during a build.
Everyone knew certain roots were not to be damaged.
And then one day I discovered that a significant root had been cut.
Immediately, I had an image.
I had a sense of what had happened.
When I later spoke to the person overseeing the work, they claimed they weren’t sure how it had occurred.
But when I shared what I had seen—that a delivery truck had likely become stuck and that the root had been cut in order to free it—the person’s response told me everything I needed to know.
I wasn’t interested in proving myself right.
The damage had already been done.
What struck me was something else entirely.
I knew.
And for perhaps the first time, I knew that I knew.
That moment became a reference point.
A calibration point.
An opportunity to study the experience itself.
How had the information arrived?
What did it feel like?
What was different about it compared to ordinary thinking?
Compared to fear?
Compared to imagination?
Compared to worry?
And I think this is where things become interesting.
Because perhaps part of opening to greater awareness is not learning to receive information.
Perhaps we’ve always been receiving information.
Perhaps the deeper practice is learning the language through which our own system communicates.
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This is where I want to offer a little nuance.
Because I am not suggesting that every worry is intuition.
Nor am I suggesting that every feeling is guidance.
Or that every thought is true.
Discernment matters.
And perhaps discernment is one of the great practices of this time.
Learning to ask:
Is this fear?
Is this projection?
Is this a story?
Or is this perception?
And the answer isn’t always obvious.
Which is why I think curiosity matters more than certainty.
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One of the most powerful things we can do is become scientists of our own experience.
Not believers.
Not skeptics.
Observers.
Trackers.
Explorers.
Experimenters.
People willing to collect data.
People willing to notice.
People willing to ask questions.
So if this conversation resonates with you, I’d love to offer a simple experiment.
But before I outline that, I invite you to take a few moments and reflect on your own life. You can pause the recording if you want.
Can you remember a time when you just knew something?
Perhaps it was a route you didn’t want to take.
A place you didn’t want to go.
A decision that didn’t feel right.
A conversation you felt you needed to have.
A person you felt drawn toward—or away from.
Maybe you listened.
Maybe you didn’t.
But later, something happened that made you stop and think:
“Ah.. I knew.”
Not because you had all the facts.
Not necessarily because you had proof.
But because something in you already knew.
If a memory comes to mind, spend a few moments with it.
How did that knowing arrive for you?
Was it a feeling?
An image?
A dream?
A sudden thought?
A sense in your body?
And perhaps most importantly, how was it different from fear?
How was it different from worry?
You don’t need to have the answers today.
We’re simply beginning to notice.
Beginning to observe.
Beginning to learn the language of our own system.
And from that place, I’d love to offer a simple experiment.
Over next few weeks, every time you notice something that feels like worry, write it down.
Not every thought.
Not every anxiety.
Just the ones that stand out.
Then ask:
What am I noticing?
What do I think might happen?
How does this feel in my body?
Does it feel contracted or clear?
Is there emotional urgency attached to it?
Or does it feel neutral?
And then leave it alone.
Don’t obsess over it.
Don’t force it.
Simply observe.
And later, revisit your notes.
What happened?
What didn’t happen?
What was accurate?
What wasn’t?
What patterns do you notice?
Because over time, you may begin to discover that your system has a language all its own.
You may begin to recognize how intuition arrives for you.
How fear arrives for you.
How perception arrives for you.
How knowing arrives for you.
And that kind of self-awareness is invaluable.
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As I’ve continued exploring this myself, I’ve noticed something else.
I’ve begun changing how I share what I perceive.
Less urgency.
Less convincing.
Less pushing.
More curiosity.
More calm.
More trust.
Because the goal isn’t becoming better at predicting outcomes.
The goal isn’t proving that we’re right.
The goal is becoming wiser stewards of what we perceive.
More grounded.
More embodied.
More discerning.
More able to hold information without immediately reacting to it.
And perhaps that, too, is part of the evolution of consciousness.
Not simply receiving more information.
But learning how to be in relationship with it.
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So I’ll leave you with this:
Not everything that looks like worry is fear.
Sometimes it is awareness arriving before certainty.
And sometimes the invitation is not to believe it.
Nor dismiss it.
But simply to become curious enough to explore it.
Until next time, keep noticing, keep questioning, keep exploring, and keep becoming the scientist of your own experience.
If this episode resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Have you ever had an experience that looked like worry from the outside but felt like something entirely different from within?
And if you know someone who might benefit from this conversation, please share it with them.
Thank you for being here, and I look forward to being with you again next week.
