There are decisions where, looking back, I know very clearly that I had already sensed the answer much earlier. Not as a clear sentence, and not as some dramatic revelation. It was more like a barely tangible movement, an inner hesitation, a brief sense of openness or constriction, sometimes simply a moment in which something within me became quieter. At the time, I often gave such impressions very little importance. They seemed too subtle beside all the sensible arguments I had in my head at the same time. Only later, once a situation had unfolded, would I remember that something had already been there at the beginning. This quiet knowing had not shouted, pushed or offered reasons. Perhaps that was exactly why I failed to hear it.
For a long time, I imagined intuition almost as a special ability. Something some people possess more strongly than others and that ought to make itself clearly known if it were truly important. Today, I see it differently. For me, intuition is often far more ordinary. It can arise from experiences that my conscious mind can no longer recall individually. My body and mind take in countless small signals, facial expressions, moods, deviations, memories and connections. Some of this is processed consciously, much of it remains beneath the surface. From that, an impression can arise before I am able to explain where it comes from. For me, that does not make intuition any less fascinating. Quite the opposite. It reminds me that perception is greater than what I can put into words in any given moment.
At the same time, I have experienced that not every strong feeling is intuition. Fear, in particular, can be extremely convincing. Wishes, expectations and old experiences can also feel like inner knowing. If I want something badly enough, hope can quickly feel like certainty. If I have been hurt before, a new situation can trigger an immediate warning signal even if it has very little to do with the old one. I still do not always find this distinction easy. Personally, however, intuition usually seems quieter to me. It does not argue endlessly. It does not try to persuade me. Often, it is already there before my thinking begins to build a story around it. Only afterwards do the explanations, doubts and counterarguments begin.
Our modern everyday lives make it especially difficult to notice these subtle differences. The moment uncertainty arises, countless external voices are available to us. We can read up on something, compare, ask someone, look at reviews or have someone explain what would probably be the right thing to do in a particular situation. I use these possibilities myself and do not see knowledge as the opposite of intuition. It becomes difficult for me only when external answers are available so quickly that my own perception barely has time to emerge at all. Before I have even sensed what a situation brings up in me, I may already have read ten opinions about it. My mind is then very well supplied with information, while something quieter within me has already faded away again.
I therefore experience intuition less as a voice telling me what I should do and more as a form of inner resonance. A conversation can be outwardly perfectly friendly and yet something within me remains tense. A decision can look entirely reasonable on paper and still feel strangely constricting. Conversely, there are paths for which I do not yet have a complete explanation and yet a peculiar calm appears. Such sensations are not proof for me. I would never turn them into a universal truth. But I have found that it is worth taking them seriously without following them blindly. At first, they simply tell me something about how I am perceiving a situation, and that alone can be valuable.
Over time, I also became aware of how strongly our relationship with ourselves determines whether we give this perception any space at all. If I have spent years immediately dismissing or minimising my feelings, the inner voice eventually becomes difficult to hear. I know sentences such as “You’re imagining it”, “Be sensible”, “You’re being too sensitive” or “There’s no reason for that”. Some of these may originally have come from outside, while others I eventually began saying to myself. Of course, it can be useful to question our own perception. But if every inner impression is immediately devalued, I gradually lose trust in the idea that my own experience has anything meaningful to say at all.
This experience is closely connected, for me, with New Reiki – Back to the Source. In my own exploration of Reiki and energy over many years, I experienced how important it became not to keep searching for a particular sensation. The more I expected to feel something specific, the easier it was to overlook what was actually there. Only when I defined less and perceived more did the experience become more immediate for me. I do not see this as proof of any objective energetic truth. It is my personal experience of how subtle perception can become when I do not immediately force it into a predetermined picture. For me, this is also where the connection with intuition lies. It does not need a mystical framework, but it does need a certain amount of inner space.
Interestingly, that space does not mean switching off the mind. Quite the opposite. I trust my thinking and my experience. I examine things, gather information and revise my judgement when new information appears. Intuition and reason have not become opponents for me. They simply look at the same situation from different directions. The mind asks about reasons, consequences and connections. Intuition often signals earlier that something deserves attention in the first place. I only lose something when I make either one the sole authority. Pure thinking can take me away from my immediate perception. Pure gut feeling can just as easily lead me back into old patterns.
Today, I am particularly interested in those brief moments that come before a finished opinion. The instant before I explain to myself why something is good or bad. A small physical reaction before I evaluate it. A sense of calm that appears even though my mind still has questions. Not every one of these movements leads anywhere, and not every one needs to be understood. But now and then, I recognise within them something I would once have dismissed too quickly. It is not a voice giving me commands. It is more like something gently knocking and then becoming quiet again. And these days, I find myself wondering more often how much in our lives remains unheard not because it is too quiet, but because we ourselves barely leave a single moment free in which we might hear it.