BELIEF

Those who have encountered the unknown bear a truth that sits heavy on their tongues. Whether through intention or by chance, they suddenly find themselves thrown into a secret society set apart by experiences that defy ordinary explanation. While these experiences can be rewarding, a blessing even, they come at a cost. These individuals speak a language that the world does not recognize. And so those who know and those who have seen are left to carry the weight of an irrefutable truth that can never be fully communicated. They often find themselves alienated from the world around them, caught in a liminal space where the paranormal is as real as the air they breathe, yet constantly dismissed as delusion or psychosis. They continue to carry their truth privately, aware that their experiences are a rare gift, and acceptance, rarer still.

It does not help that our world is teeming with imposters who exploit human curiosity. Sadly, they only perpetuate the climate of skepticism, making it exceedingly difficult for credible experiencers to find acceptance. Though, I cannot in good conscience fault those who hesitate to meet such claims with open arms. In a world where wonder and deception so often wear the same face, it takes a discerning eye to separate the wheat from the chaff.

The truth is, concrete evidence may never come, at least not in a form that would satisfy the hardened skeptic. But convincing the closed-minded has never been the main priority, nor should it be. It is not the task of the experiencer to validate their truth for the comfort of others. Even so, tensions arise when society demands allegiance to a singular, sanctioned version of reality. There is an unspoken pressure to conform and to silence anything that strays from the established script. But for those who are acquainted with the unexplainable, such conformity becomes a betrayal. When lived truth stands at odds with collective belief, the cost of silence can be as heavy as the cost of speaking.

For many of us, disbelief is an all-too-familiar companion. Our truths are often met with strained politeness, or outright dismissal. To speak of what lies beyond is often to risk one’s credibility. And yet, some of us choose to speak all the same. With candor and vulnerability, we step forward, with earnest hopes of contributing to a more complete understanding of the human experience.

Paranormal research has grown into a field of increasing prominence. Having drawn the attention of scholars, scientists, and independent field investigators alike, collectively, they contribute to a steadily expanding body of work that becomes difficult to neatly categorize. This area of study is equal parts empirical inquiry, part philosophical speculation, part testimonial archive. In my own search for understanding, I approached this literature from many angles: peer-reviewed studies, historical analyses, and a vast array of personal testimonies shared across digital platforms. Such breadth felt necessary, especially when exploring a subject so niche.

I don’t pretend to be an authority. This is not an authoritative guide. It is a collection of lived experiences and a way to cohesively curate the scattered bits of insight I have gathered along the way. In doing so, I hope to offer clarity on the often-contested subject of life after death and, perhaps, help others understand why some of us believe as we do. Not out of blind faith but because we have seen, felt, and known something that cannot be easily dismissed. This is my attempt to give voice to that knowing and to place it into the world.

I frequently draw upon the work of Carl Jung, whose insights I find not only intellectually compelling but personally resonant. Time and again, I’m struck by how precisely his reflections mirror my own inner experience as if he articulated truths I had long sensed. As one of the most influential figures in the history of psychoanalysis, Jung dared to explore the depths of the psyche where few others ventured. Central to his legacy is a conviction that remains controversial even now: that consciousness persists beyond death.

Despite his stature as a respected scholar, Jung struggled to reconcile his fascination with the paranormal with the demands of academic legitimacy. As Sonu Shamdasani (2003) documents, Jung was acutely aware of the professional risks of voicing such convictions. Yet in time he overcame the dread of ridicule and pursued his curiosity openly, even venturing into the then-embryonic field of parapsychology. His hunger for knowledge could not be contained within the boundaries of conventional thought; he felt compelled to examine precisely those phenomena most often marginalized by mainstream science and society. I find in his story a kind of kinship: the struggle to honor experiences that resist conventional explanation, even when silence would be safer.

One of Jung’s most enduring contributions is the concept of synchronicity, which would later come to be his term for the uncanny coincidences that feel too saturated with meaning to be dismissed as mere chance (Jung, 1973/2010). To Jung, synchronicities were windows into a hidden order linking people, events, and archetypal forces. They pointed toward what he called the collective unconscious, the deep reservoir of symbols and memories shared across humanity (Jung, 1959/1990; Main, 2007). This collective inheritance shapes our unseen inner lives. I remember one such moment vividly: during the heavy moments following my father’s death, I found myself in a meditative state when a dome of light appeared in my vision. At the time, I was too stunned to understand it. Yet only days later, while leafing through Buddhist literature, I stumbled upon a passage describing light as a symbol of psychic breakthrough. It was as though the outer world had conspired to articulate what my inner world was already struggling to say.

Even apart from his archetypal lexicon, Jung’s central message holds true: the mind retains far more than it can verbalize. Most of our cognition dwells in the unconscious. We are not mere machines sorting data. We organize experience into symbols, archetypes, and metaphors. These patterns are the scaffolding of our inner world (Stevens, 2001). Consciousness itself seems to reach beyond the boundaries of the physical body, suggesting our existence is not limited to neuronal activity alone. Accounts of near-death experiences, apparitions, and unusual states of awareness imply that the psyche may not be extinguished by death. (Moody, 1975; Greyson, 2003; Kelly et al., 2007).

It's interesting to me that, despite Jung’s influence and legacy, some academics still shy away from his work, dismissing it as too mystical for serious psychological study. I, as well as countless others, find this perspective incredibly limited. Modern psychology, in its quest for legitimacy, has often erred by treating the entire field as though it must be a hard science. In doing so, it has lost something vital. James Hillman (1975) once remarked that psychology’s bid to become “scientific” came at the expense of subjectivity. My own discovery of Jung made me realize how many of us try to think our way into a fulfilling life by leaning on logic while neglecting intuition.

Søren Kierkegaard, in The Sickness unto Death (1849/1980), described the existential moment when objective truth and subjective experience collide as a form of “sublime madness.” For him, this was no crisis, but the crossroads where contradictions must coexist. Where reason cannot cross the chasm without faith. Perhaps what we call madness is in fact a sort of alchemy: the fusion of logic and faith into something greater than either alone.

From another discipline altogether, physicist Richard Feynman’s reflections in The Character of Physical Law (1965) echo this sentiment. He suggested that what we call paradox may not be paradox at all. Objectivity and subjectivity, so often cast as adversaries, are, in fact, twin expressions of truth. One without the other is incomplete. Without subjectivity, objectivity lacks context; without objectivity, subjectivity loses grounding. One gives us the world; the other gives it meaning.

I won’t deny that scientific evidence still holds a central place in my philosophies. Its credibility is ostensible. Yet, I also place great value in intellectual humility. The finest minds throughout history have not been those who clung rigidly to the certainty of their knowledge but those who, understanding the limits of what they knew, dared to question the very assumptions upon which others built their worlds. It is in that rebellion against the established that true understanding is born. Those who assert to having all the answers often find themselves further from the truth than they may realize.

It has become increasingly apparent to me that an overreliance on science as the sole arbiter of truth flattens the human experience. Joseph Campbell (2003) lamented that in modernity, myth has been reduced to “falsehood,” stripped of its original function as a symbolic vocabulary through which cultures communicate meaning. To dismiss myth as mere fiction, he argued, is to misunderstand its role as a map of the psyche. Myth, in Campbell’s vision, is not concerned with literal truth but with existential truth. It provides metaphors through which we can situate ourselves within the cosmos, linking the personal with the universal (Campbell, 1949/2008).

The result of neglecting this symbolic grammar, Campbell warned, is a society bereft of mystery, where spiritual principles are disregarded in favor of economic, technological, and political aims. Deprived of the sustaining narratives that once offered coherence, individuals find themselves adrift, and internally conflicted. In these situations, the psyche compensates: the myths we repress return in disturbed dreams and anxieties that echo the symbols we have cast aside (Campbell, 1972/2002).

What Campbell understood, and what parapsychology has since affirmed, is that myth is not a relic of a “primitive” past but an ongoing necessity. Science concerns itself with what can be observed and measured. But reality owes us no such simplicity. It often extends beyond the reach of our instruments. The spiritual and the immaterial by their very nature lie outside the bounds of what science can quantify. We are not machines, nor, in this iteration of being, are we only spirit. We are both matter and mystery. Our bones are made of stardust, and our dreams are stitched with symbols older than memory. To live fully is to honor both dimensions of our being.

I believe those who find themselves attuned to the immaterial world are tapping into the same vital force that many faiths have long called “God.” This force is not the property of creed or scripture. It is a universal current, ancient and alive, flowing through all things. The vocabulary of this energy is diverse. Some call it Spirit, others Source, the Divine, the Light. Words differ by geography, language, and doctrine, but the essence remains the same.

Many can sense the spiritual strength underpinning religious beliefs. But for some, the doctrines and dogmas of organized faith fall short of capturing the true nature of this power. Concepts like the collective unconscious speak to something larger at play where Spirit is not something to be obeyed. It is a way of knowing that does not ask for allegiance. Only for an awareness that belongs to everyone and excludes no one.

It is not my intention to diminish anyone’s faith, nor can I deny its role in providing a sense of connection in a disconnected world. But in seeking understanding, we must also be willing to turn a discerning eye toward the human hand that has shaped religious thought across millennia. Humanity, with all its brilliance and fallibility, has left an indelible mark on the structure of religious ideas. To suggest otherwise would be to ignore the clear influence of culture and power in the development of spiritual systems. Given our innate susceptibility to error, it is only reasonable to consider that rigid doctrines may, in fact, also carry within them the mark of human imperfection.

For too long, we have treated religion as something arriving fully formed from an omnipotent power, when in truth, it has always been an evolving human creation. Émile Durkheim (1912/1995) argued that religion reflects collective life itself, a symbolic system through which societies both confront and transfigure the inevitability of death. Indeed, it may be more accurate to say that the concept of the afterlife gave rise to religion, rather than religion giving rise to the afterlife. The mystery of death was the soil, and from that soil, belief grew.

For many, religious beliefs are a defining aspect of their identity. This reveals just how deeply the psychological imprinting of religion can be. From early childhood, most individuals are enmeshed in religious narratives that set the rules for living and the consequences of deviation from those rules. Long before critical thought has a chance to develop, these stories and symbols become internalized and ingrained into the psyche as unquestioned truths (Berger, 1967; Boyer, 2001; Rizzuto, 1979).

When identity becomes inseparable from belief, any challenge to that belief can trigger a psychological defense response. It is perceived as a threat to one’s very existence. The brain, hardwired for survival, reacts as if the self is under attack. As Leon Festinger (1957) observed, when contradictory information threatens one’s worldview, the discomfort rarely leads to revision. More often, individuals double down, reinforcing convictions with renewed intensity. This is where religious absolutism thrives: psychological comfort is mistaken for spiritual truth. (Altemeyer & Hunsberger, 1992; Hood, Hill, & Spilka, 2009). It is here that we must tread carefully. If we are to evolve in our understanding of ourselves and one another, we must be willing to examine the inner psyche of belief: what it gives us, what it costs us, and what might lie beyond it.

For many who believe in an afterlife, reconciling the figure of Jesus Christ with the growing body of near-death experiences (NDEs) presents a challenge. These accounts, shared across cultures, ages, and belief systems, often carry a humbling insinuation: that religion, in its earthly form, may not matter as much as we’ve been taught. From the brink of death, the reported message is surprisingly consistent: what matters most is love. Not creed. Not dogma. Not allegiance to a particular faith. Just love (Moody, 1975; Greyson, 2000; Ring, 1980). For those raised within the Judeo-Christian tradition, where salvation is often said to hinge on belief in Jesus, such an implication can be jarring. If love is the ultimate currency of the soul, what becomes of the elaborate structures we have built around belief?

Few historians dispute that a man named Jesus once walked the earth (Ehrman, 2012; Sanders, 1993). Many of the places named in scripture still stand, giving legitimacy to the narrative. Yet history, as every scholar acknowledges, is never neutral. It is shaped by those who record it. The Bible, for all its depth, has passed through the hands of kings and councils, popes and empires. Layers of canon and interpretation, assembled over centuries, have often obscured the radical simplicity of its central figure (Pagels, 1979; Crossan, 1991).

One compelling interpretation suggests that Jesus did not return solely to redeem humanity from sin but, more importantly, he came to communicate a holy truth long buried: that divinity resides within us all. “Have I not told you? Ye are gods," he pleaded (John 10:34, KJV). If the kingdom of heaven truly lies within (Luke 17:21), then the path to the divine is not gated by institutions nor judged by priesthoods.

Such an implication strikes at the very foundation of traditional religious power. It disrupts the long-held belief that certain individuals stand closer to God than the rest of us. Instead, it communicates a radically egalitarian truth: that every soul carries a spark kindled from the same eternal source and that no person is more sacred than another (Tillich, 1957; Spong, 1991).

When you strip away the doctrines that have built up around the figure of Jesus over the centuries, his core teachings are astonishingly simple and universal: love God and love one another (Mark 12:30–31). It is heartwrenching to see how far religion has strayed from this principal message. And if there is any truth to the resurrection story, let it be this: that love is not defeated by death. That the soul transcends the body. That no structure of power can contain the infinite.

“One of the main functions of organized religion is to protect people against a direct experience of God” Jung

Even in my youth, I sensed a connection to something unseen, a presence that moved through dreams. I wouldn’t have known to call it the collective unconscious then, but I sensed something greater than myself. When I speak now of having experienced a "spiritual awakening," it is less of a sudden revelation and more of a return to what had always been developing just beneath my awareness.

Recently, it’s become evident that this attunement has made me increasingly sensitive to what lies beyond: paranormal phenomena, subtle energies, and what some might call messages from the Other Side. These experiences feel familiar. This is a language I have always known even before I could name it.

Over time, my spiritual path led me away from the structured tenets of Catholicism and into a more expansive, philosophical view. I no longer cling to the certainty of a God defined. Instead, I open myself to the mystery of divinity as something to be lived, felt, and discovered moment by moment. In the words of the German theologian Meister Eckhart (Eckhart, 2009), my longing is not merely to believe in God, but to experience God.

A few years ago, I naively confided in a close acquaintance, sharing a personal experience of the paranormal in the hope it might bring them comfort. I was met with a curt dismissal. That moment revealed something I had not fully appreciated: not everyone is ready or willing to hold space for conversations about the paranormal.

Yet more than rejection, this interaction reminded me of the invaluable role faith plays in establishing connection with the universe. These are deeply personal experiences that cannot be taught or imposed upon someone. The universe does not shout. It speaks in dreams and in symbols. For those who are receptive, the world reveals itself in extraordinary ways. Patterns emerge. Synchronicities develop. The veil thins. In the end, we must each decide: to close ourselves off in fear or disbelief, or to remain open and curious. The universe will always speak. The question is whether we choose to hear it.

Humanity's longing for tangible proof of an afterlife is, I believe, inseparable from the larger question of our existence. It is only human to seek answers to life’s greatest mysteries. And across cultures, this longing has expressed itself in diverse symbolic forms. The Tibetan Bardo Thödol, known in the West as The Tibetan Book of the Dead, describes the soul’s passage through visionary realms after death by the mind’s own clarity or confusion (Evans-Wentz, 1927/2000). In ancient Egypt, The Book of the Dead provided spells to guide the departed safely through the underworld, primarily to emphasize that the heart’s purity mattered more than wealth or power (Faulkner, 1990). Indigenous traditions likewise affirm that death is not an end but a transition: among many Native American peoples, the “Spirit Road” is the path of souls to the afterlife, where ancestors welcome and guide the newly departed (Irwin, 1994). These traditions, though culturally distinct, converge on a similar point: what awaits us is not determined by rigid earthly institutions but by the integrity of our lives, our love, and our openness to mystery.

Yet, I suspect that if we were to definitively confirm the existence of an afterlife, the human experience would lose its intrinsic value. It is not the attainment of certainty, but rather the pursuit of meaning amidst uncertainty, that drives us. This ongoing search compels us to reach beyond ourselves, to establish deeper bonds with others while encouraging our own personal evolution. The mystery of the unknown propels us. As Dr. Ian P. Stevenson (Stevenson, 1982), founder and director of the Division of Perceptual Studies at the University of Virginia, wisely spoke:

"I believe it is better to learn what is probable about important matters than to be certain about trivial ones."

Certainty is a closed door.