The morning it started, I wasn’t on a mountain top or in a candlelit temple. I was in my studio in Portland, staring at a half-finished illustration of a cedar tree, nursing a lukewarm coffee. Suddenly, the hum of the refrigerator became a roar. The light hitting the floorboards felt aggressive, almost tactile. It was like someone had reached into my brain and turned the master volume dial all the way to the right. I didn't feel enlightened; I felt like I needed to hide under my desk.
Heads up—this site contains affiliate links. If you purchase through them, I earn a commission at no extra cost to you. I only share spiritual tools and programs I have personally explored in my own messy journey. Full disclosure here. I’m just an illustrator trying to make sense of why my reality suddenly feels like a high-definition broadcast I didn’t subscribe to.
If you’ve read My Spiritual Awakening Story: The Week Everything Changed in Portland, you know I spent most of the last two years thinking I was either losing my mind or suffering from a very specific type of creative burnout. But over the last 23 weeks—specifically from November 2025 to now—I’ve realized that what I’m going through has a name. It’s an awakening. But it’s not all lotus flowers and peace. Sometimes, it’s just weird.
1. The Sensory Overload (The World is Too Loud)
Nobody told me that waking up meant my nervous system would become a raw nerve. Around November 15, 2025, I noticed I couldn't handle the grocery store anymore. The fluorescent lights felt like they were screaming. The sound of people talking in the aisle next to me felt like it was happening inside my own skull.
Here is the thing: spiritual growth is often marketed as this blissful expansion. For me, it felt like a total loss of filters. I started carrying earplugs everywhere. I realized that my body was suddenly picking up on frequencies I used to be able to tune out. Since I started this intentional stretch of practice, I’ve spent exactly 3,220 minutes sitting on my meditation cushion, just trying to teach my brain how to process the extra input without panicking.
2. The Social Static
This is the part that hurts. You’re at a party, or a brunch with friends you’ve known for years, and suddenly... you can’t do the small talk. It’s not that you’re better than them. It’s that the words feel like cardboard. You start sensing the emotions underneath the conversation—the hidden sadness, the performative joy—and it’s exhausting.
I’ve written about this in my journal a lot lately. I have 161 entries from the last few months, and at least half of them are me asking: Is it me? Am I just becoming a hermit? But I’ve learned that as your internal frequency shifts, the old puzzles just don’t fit anymore. It’s lonely. It’s awkward. You find yourself nodding along to stories about someone’s kitchen remodel while your soul is internally screaming for a conversation about why we’re all actually here.
3. The Need for a Different Kind of Map
By January 8, 2026, I hit a wall. I was tired of feeling like an alien in my own life. I needed something to help me understand the 'why' behind the weirdness. I’m not really into the heavy-duty guru stuff, but I found myself looking for tools that felt personal rather than preachy.
I actually ended up trying a Moon Reading during that particularly confusing week. I’ve talked about this before—I Got a Moon Reading to Understand My Soul Purpose and It Got Weirdly Specific—but honestly, it helped. It wasn’t a magic wand, but it gave me a framework. It explained why my emotional 'tide' was pulling me so far out to sea. Sometimes you just need a tool that says, Hey, this part of you is supposed to be this sensitive. It’s a feature, not a bug.
4. The Physical Purge
I expected the peace. I didn't expect the crying. Or the random bouts of extreme fatigue. There were days in February where I’d sleep for nine hours and wake up feeling like I’d run a marathon. It’s like the body is trying to catch up to the spirit. All the old stress from that freelance drought two years ago? It started coming out in weird ways—skin rashes, sudden heat, and tears over a commercial for laundry detergent.
I’ve found that using specific frequencies can help ground that physical 'buzz.' I’ve been experimenting with the Billionaire Brain Wave audio lately. Don't let the name throw you—I’m not trying to buy a yacht—but the actual sound technology is great for settling that overactive, 'vibrating' feeling in the nervous system. It’s become a bridge between my 20-minute morning meditation and the rest of my work day.
5. The Loss of the 'Future' Self
By March 22, 2026, I noticed the biggest shift of all. I stopped being able to obsess about the future. For a freelance illustrator, this is actually kind of terrifying. My whole life was built on 'what’s next?' and 'where is the next contract?'
Suddenly, the future felt... blurry. Not in a bad way, but in a way that forced me into the present. I couldn't manifest a five-year plan if you paid me. I’m currently learning to trust that the 'now' is enough. It’s a work in progress. I’m still figuring out how to balance this new, present-focused consciousness with the very real need to pay my rent in Portland.
The Reality Check
If you’re feeling these things—the noise, the isolation, the weird physical shifts—know that it’s okay to be confused. You don’t have to have a 'practice' that looks like a stock photo. My practice involves 161 messy journal entries and a lot of staring at the rain. It’s not always pretty, but it’s real.
If you feel like you're drifting, maybe start with something simple to find your bearings. I really liked the personalized aspect of the Moon Reading because it felt like it was talking to me, the illustrator with the loud fridge, not some idealized version of a spiritual seeker. It’s a free place to start when everything else feels like too much noise.
Hang in there. The volume might be up, but eventually, you start to like the song.