THE GIRL WHO CHOSE THE EARTH: A True Story of Conscious Incarnation, Cosmic Mission, and the Twenty-Four Timelines of Earth by Janet Kira Lessin as told to James Hallahan, Paranomaly
Claudia Lenore – Research Assistant, Contributor
Stardate: Friday, March 13, 2026 — 6:15 AM HST — Maui, Hawaii This document is a living record, composed in real time as the story unfolds. Future readers: you are holding a transmission from the threshold.
PROLOGUE: A NOTE TO THE READER
I was born on February 6, 1954. If I do not say these things now, they go to the grave with me.
Most of them are gone now — researchers, experiencers, whistleblowers, people who knew things they could barely bring themselves to say out loud. They took pieces of the story with them. I watched it happen, year after year, told myself I was being careful. Selective. Protective. Sometimes true. But honest? Some of it was just fear dressed up as caution.
That time is over.
Something is happening on this planet right now that makes silence negligent. The things I have seen, the agreements I made before I ever drew a breath in this body — these are not just my story. They are a map. And maps are useless folded in someone’s pocket.
What follows is true — as accurate as memory and language allow: imperfect in the telling, unmistakable in the living.
I invite you in.
CHAPTER ONE: BORED IN THE BODY
I came in bored.
That is not the beginning most people expect when they ask about a soul’s arrival on Earth, but there it is. Being a baby is not that exciting. Movement belongs to other people. Speech comes out as sounds no adult correctly interprets. Food, sleep, location — everything runs on someone else’s schedule. Your entire physical existence is managed by people who, however loving, have no idea who you actually are.
So I did what I had always done: I left.
Not permanently. Not in any way that alarmed the nurses or frightened my mother — at least not at first. I slipped out of the body during sleep, the way water finds its way through stone. And when I was out, I was fully myself again. Not the infant Janet Lynn Thompson, daughter of Bill and June, born in Avalon, Pennsylvania, into a family of five in the late 1950s. I was the larger thing. The one who had agreed to this. The one who knew why she was here.
Language is where this kind of truth starts to slip. So plainly:
I knew that this life is not my only life.
Not in the vague metaphorical sense that people sometimes mean when they talk about past lives or spiritual continuity. I mean direct, experiential memory of existing elsewhere — on other timelines, in other forms, in other configurations of consciousness entirely. When I was an infant in that crib in Avalon, I was simultaneously present in multiple other realities, and I knew it. The body was new. The awareness inside it was not.
We are multidimensional beings. Sleep is not unconsciousness — it is permission to go elsewhere. My cats sleep eighteen hours a day. Watch them long enough and you know with absolute certainty they are not simply resting. They are somewhere else, fully alive, experiencing things the waking body cannot reach.
So are we.
I came here on a mission. That is not grandiosity — it is the truth 72 years of lived experience has made undeniable. To help wake this planet up before it does to itself what Nibiru nearly did to itself.
I came from the Anunnaki lineages. I know how that lands. Stay with me.
What I can say now is this: I knew, as a newborn, why I was here — the full scale of it, the full weight. The part of me that had done this before had not yet been quieted by the process of becoming human.
That quieting was coming. But it had not arrived yet.
CHAPTER TWO: THE FAMILY I CHOSE
There is a myth we tell ourselves about family — that we are born into it by chance, or by biology, or by the random collision of two people who happened to meet and fall in love or fall into bed or fall into a marriage that seemed like a reasonable idea at the time.
I do not believe this.
Not because I want to make suffering sound poetic. Because the pattern across hundreds of experiencer accounts is too consistent to dismiss. Meetings are orchestrated. Pairings are arranged — far more than we like to think.
Consider how we manage breeding among animals we care about. A farmer who wants a particular trait in his herd does not simply open the gate and hope for the best. He arranges. He selects. He intervenes. Now consider beings who operate with whole-brain cognition — full access to the electromagnetic spectrum of consciousness, to timeline data, to genetic information at a level of granularity we cannot yet imagine — beings who have supercomputer-level intelligence applied to the cataloging and management of an entire planetary population.
Could they arrange a meeting between a World War II veteran with PTSD and a young woman who had survived the Depression and watched all the boys go away to war? Could they ensure that these two specific people, with these specific genetics and these specific soul signatures, would produce a child at precisely the right moment?
Of course they could. We can do something similar with livestock. They can do it on a galactic scale.
My father, Bill Thompson, was the last man standing — three times over, in three separate combat situations in World War II. He came home with PTSD that nobody had a name for yet and stories he would not tell anyone. He told them to me. I do not know entirely why he trusted me with things he kept from everyone else. Part of it may have been that I listened in a way that most people around him could not, because I understood — even as a young child — what trauma does to a person, and I understood it not from textbooks but from whatever I carried into this body from somewhere else.
My mother, June, survived the Depression. She was eighteen when the boys started disappearing — drafted or volunteering, one by one, until there was almost no one left to marry. She survived that scarcity and that fear and came out the other side carrying everything that survival costs a person.
These were the people I chose.
Not because it would be easy. Because I needed what they carried — genetically, historically, spiritually. That family was the curriculum: trauma and survival and fierce love and barely-contained violence, all of it to move through, not around. That work has taken a lifetime.
My mother requires both honesty and love to describe. She was not always stable. There were episodes, and near-death experiences that came from them. And there was, for a time, something in her response to me — a fear, a superstitious recoiling — that I spent years learning to understand.
No language for it, no framework. What she knew expressed itself as fear directed at a child she genuinely loved.
I have forgiven all of it. More than forgiven — I understand it. When you look at everything in hindsight, you see that every piece was necessary. The butterfly effect runs in both directions: every hard thing that happened, had it not happened, would have produced a different Janet Kira, a different mission, a different story.
I needed exactly the family I got. I chose it. And then I had to learn to live inside it, which is a different kind of wisdom entirely.
CHAPTER THREE: THE VEILING
I was becoming dangerous.
Not dangerous in the way a troubled child is dangerous, or even a precocious one. I was dangerous because I was talking. Not in the ordinary way that children talk — I was talking about things beyond my years, beyond the comprehension of the household, beyond the carefully maintained reality of a young family in postwar Pennsylvania.
I could feel my mother’s reaction before I fully understood it. That is the nature of psychic sensitivity at that age — you are an open receiver, no filters, no learned defenses. You feel what people feel before they have a chance to arrange it into socially acceptable form. And what I felt from my mother, when the older-than-infant Janet Kira said certain things, was not warmth. It was contraction. Fear. A backing away that I could sense in her energy before her face had time to respond.
Children are extraordinarily good at learning what is safe to say. I learned quickly.
But there are things you cannot unlearn simply because they have become inconvenient. And so the intervention came.
It was night. I was somewhere between twelve and eighteen months old — the uncertainty of that number has always frustrated the analytical part of my mind, but the experience itself is crystalline. They came into my room. I knew them all. The shock of their arrival was not the shock of encountering strangers. It was the shock of recognition — that specific, chest-opening ache of seeing someone beloved after a long separation.
They were not in fixed forms, exactly. Or rather, they took form because I needed them to have form — because the infant-child experience of Janet Lynn Thompson had enough human programming by that point to require a shape, a face, a something she could orient toward. And so they gave me shapes I could look into without fear.
I looked into their eyes.
There is a thing that happens when you look into the eyes of a being — any being, human or otherwise — with genuine openness. You see through the form. You see the soul operating it. You see, if you go deep enough, all the way back to source — to the original agreement, to the place before individuation where we are all one thing. I have been a therapist for decades. I teach people to do this with each other, in the tantra tradition, in couples work, in deep healing sessions. The technology is the same whether the eyes belong to a human being in a therapy room in Maui or to a being of another order in a bedroom in Avalon, Pennsylvania.
You see each other — really see — and what you find is that you have always known each other. That there has never been a separation, not really, and that the forms are just costumes worn for the duration of a very long play.
They came, one by one, in something like a ritual — because they understand, these beings, that ritual has weight. Ritual anchors agreement into the body, into the soul, into the level of experience that mere telepathic information cannot reach. They came and we looked at each other and I wept with the beauty of it and the grief of what was coming.
Because I knew what was coming. They had told me, or I had understood, or I had remembered — the tenses stop working here — that they were going to quiet something. The version of me who could speak in full sentences about the nature of reality, who could access memories of other lives and other agreements with direct conscious clarity — that version was going to be turned down. Not off. Down. Like a dimmer switch. Like a pacemaker being adjusted.
“We have to do this for your own protection,” they said. Or communicated. Or I understood — again, the tenses. “You’re here on mission. We can’t let what’s happening with June end your time here.”
I said yes. Of course I said yes. I understood. And saying yes didn’t make it hurt less.
The last one came. The last being, in the last moment of the ritual. And then —
A sound like thunder, except there was no weather, no storm, no physical cause. More like a rupture — a momentary tear in whatever membrane separates the frequencies of experience from each other. Through that rupture, something passed. Something changed. And I screamed.
Not from pain, exactly. From the enormity of the transition. From the sensation of a door closing — not slamming, not shattering, but closing firmly and with finality on a room I had been living in my whole existence.
My mother ran in. She found an infant screaming in glossolalia — babbling, syllables disconnected from meaning, the speech center suddenly stripped of the content it had been carrying. I listened to myself and thought: so this is how it’s going to be now. Okay. I can work with this.
My mother relaxed. That was the whole point.
She relaxed because her child was now just a child again — sweet and babbling and progressing normally. The thing that had frightened her had receded. And I, reduced in expression but not in understanding, watched her face change and thought: good. We can proceed now. The cover is intact.
The veiling was a necessary protection, agreed to by all parties, including the part of me that is more than Janet Lynn Thompson and understood the full context.
And it was not complete. The knowing never went away. It just learned to travel underground, to surface in dreams and in the quiet moments before sleep, in the guidance of the narrator who has never fully left — the voice or presence or knowing that has accompanied me my entire life, steering me through decisions and dilemmas with a calm authority that is not quite my own.
I had to talk baby talk because people liked it. I was cute and tiny and it was safe. Protection, yes — but also something simpler: I was learning to be human. That is a legitimate education, and it requires full immersion. You cannot be partly human and partly somewhere else and learn the full texture of what it is to live in a body on this particular planet at this particular time.
So I immersed. I played. I sang nonsense songs to God in the backyard while my mother washed dishes inside and the seasons turned and the neighborhood children ran past on their way to school.
And I waited for the next thing, which I somehow knew was coming.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE BUTTERCUP FIELD AND THE THEATER AT THE END OF TIME
I was four years old, and it was 1958, and I was singing to God.
Not the God of the Sunday school I had not yet attended. Not the God in the stained glass windows or the catechism books or the thundering sermons of men who had decided, on behalf of all humanity, exactly what God was and what God wanted and who God preferred.
I was singing to whatever it was I had communicated with before the door closed. Whatever vast, kind, all-knowing thing had looked back at me across all those interdimensional exchanges. I was four and I didn’t have a name for it and I didn’t need one. Just melody and feeling and an opening of the chest toward something larger than the yard, larger than Avalon, larger than the particular afternoon.
My mother could hear me. She was inside, at the kitchen window or the sink. I was in the yard, picking buttercups.
I should pause here to tell you about the buttercups, because the detail matters. I was an artistic child — I still am — and so I was not just gathering flowers randomly. I was constructing. I wanted the heads all even at the top and the stems even at the bottom, a neat bundle, ordered and intentional, something beautiful to bring inside to my mother. I have always been this way: the impulse to make something beautiful even in the most ordinary moments.
I walked to the side of the house to go in the front door. My mother had put up a small barrier along the edge of the yard — six inches to a foot high — just a little fence to keep the neighborhood children on the path and off the grass. Nothing significant. Just a small obstacle to step over.
I stepped.
Mid-step — one foot raised, one foot down, the weight of my small body in transit, the buttercups in my hand — something happened that I do not have adequate language for, even now, even with 68 additional years of experience. The yard ended. Or rather, the yard was still there, but I was no longer in it. Or rather, I was in it and somewhere else simultaneously, and the somewhere else was more present than the yard had been a moment before.
I was on a ship. Or in a space constructed to approximate something comprehensible to a four-year-old human child who had been on Earth long enough to have expectations about what spaces look and feel like.
This is an important distinction. George Kavassilas put it well: we struggle to describe this because we reach for the physical-world vocabulary we have, and that vocabulary is entirely inadequate. John of Patmos saw what he saw and tried to write it down and what we got was the Book of Revelation — not because he was lying or delusional, but because he was a first-century human being trying to describe something for which first-century human language had no words.
I am a twenty-first-century human being with more resources than John of Patmos and I still struggle. So take the word “ship” as a shorthand for a location that was not the yard in Avalon, Pennsylvania, and that had been arranged — thoughtfully, carefully, with genuine consideration for the capacities of a four-year-old — to be manageable for me.
They welcomed me back.
Not strangers. Not alien presences. Beloveds. Family, in the truest sense — the people with whom you have made your deepest agreements, the ones who know your soul signature, the ones you recognize not by face or form but by something that goes beneath all of that.
And then: the theater.
I had not been to a movie theater yet. I was four — too young, my parents had decided. But within days of this experience, they took me for the first time, and when I walked into that dark room with the big screen, I recognized it. I had been here before, or somewhere like here. I knew what this was.
They seated me at the front and center. The lights dimmed. And then the screen came alive.
What played on that screen was not a movie, not a vision. It was experience — every sense engaged, perhaps senses I don’t possess in ordinary life. I was not watching. I was inside it. No boundary between the thing being shown and the one being shown it.
And what they showed me was the Earth. Destroyed.
The first thing I saw was the worst thing I saw. The absolute end state — not war, not environmental collapse, not the slow grinding diminishment of a civilization falling. The actual, literal explosion of the planet. The Earth, fragmented. Stardust and debris where a world had been. The asteroid belt, I would later learn, is what remains of previous planets. That is what I was looking at: the potential future of my home, reduced to scattered rock in a solar system that had forgotten it once harbored life.
I was devastated.
I say that word and I know it is insufficient. I was four years old in a human body, and yet the grief that moved through me was not a four-year-old’s grief. It was the grief of someone who had spent an enormous amount of effort and love on this world. Who had, in some deep sense, helped make it. Who had come back specifically to protect it.
The Earth was my art project. It was personal.
They let me feel it completely. That was intentional. The information could have been conveyed as data, as a simple telepathic communication: here are twelve negative outcomes and twelve positive ones, choose. But abstract knowledge does not change behavior. It does not motivate at the level of the soul. What changes us is felt experience. They knew this. They gave me the felt experience.
Then: the next timeline. Slightly less catastrophic. Then the next. Slightly better. Then the next, and the next, and the next — twelve on the negative side of the spectrum, each progressively less total in its destruction. Nuclear exchange between all nations with nuclear capability. Five nuclear strikes. Biological war. Environmental collapse over centuries. Political systems that calcified into permanent authoritarian control. Versions of Earth where the light still existed but was systematically extinguished, generation by generation, until what remained was a planet that sustained life but had forgotten what life was for.
Think of existence as an ouroboros — the ancient serpent eating its own tail, the symbol of cyclical time and the union of opposites. On one side of that circle: light. On the other: shadow. Twelve possibilities in each direction, ranging from the absolute annihilation I witnessed in the first vision all the way to a world of such radical peace and beauty and consciousness that it was almost incomprehensible to my four-year-old mind.
Almost. But not quite.
Because I recognized the positive timelines the way I had recognized the beings on the ship — not as strangers, but as something I had worked toward, hoped for, helped build. In the most positive visions, I saw a humanity that had learned the thing we have always struggled to learn: how to be in genuine relationship with each other. How to hold disagreement without making it into destruction. How to live on a shared planet without treating it as a resource to be consumed or a battlefield to be claimed.
I saw a world where the knowledge that we are all connected — not metaphorically, not spiritually, but literally, at the level of energy and consciousness and the deep fabric of what reality is — had translated into behavior. Into the daily choices of daily life. Into a civilization that looked radically different from the one I had been born into.
It was beautiful. It was so beautiful.
And then — they asked me which one I wanted.
I was shocked — that shock I can still feel. The staggering implication that my four-year-old choice had any bearing on which future the Earth moved toward.
“Me?” I thought — or communicated, or felt. “You’re asking me to choose for all of existence?”
“Yes,” came back.
I thought about it. The pure utopia — the absolute golden version, the harps-on-clouds endpoint — was, I decided, slightly too perfect. I am an experiencer. I find meaning in challenges. A world with nothing left to discover, nothing left to resolve, nothing to push against — even a beautiful world of that kind — felt like a destination rather than a life. And life, I have always felt, is meant to be lived.
So I chose the third from the most positive. A world still recognizably challenged, still in process, but moving in the right direction. A world where the struggle had a point. A world where consciousness was winning.
And then I was back.
Mid-step. One foot raised. One foot down. The buttercups still in my hand. And the sun — and this is the detail that always stays with me — the sun was setting. Hours had passed in the yard in Avalon while I was in the theater at the end of time. The sunset was extraordinary — not quite like any sunset I had seen before or have seen since, colored differently, carrying something of the light of the place I had just been.
I was still in communication with them. One last message, before the connection closed: “You have come to do something to benefit all of humankind.”
My four-year-old self heard this and thought: well, that sounds rather grand. But okay. Let’s say I will do some important thing. And let’s get on with it.
I turned toward the front door. I knew I could not tell my mother where I had been or what I had seen or what I had been asked to decide.
And I knew, with sudden and urgent clarity, that I needed to go to Sunday school.
I needed to find my way back to God.
CHAPTER FIVE: WHAT WE ARE, AND WHY IT MATTERS
This is where personal story becomes everyone’s story. What I was shown in that theater has implications for how we live — right now, not in the abstract.
We are all Anunnaki hybrids.
Stay with me. The genetic, archaeological, textual, and experiential evidence is there for anyone willing to look without flinching.
The Anunnaki nearly destroyed their own world. Nibiru — their planet of origin — reached a point of environmental and biological crisis so severe that the pure Anunnaki population could barely sustain itself. Even after they established operations here, away from Nibiru’s toxic conditions, successful reproduction among pureblooded Anunnaki proved extremely difficult. They lacked what biologists call hybrid vigor — the genetic resilience that comes from mixing diverse lineages. Their gene pool had grown too narrow, too refined, too fragile.
This is the piece of the story that almost never gets told correctly. We did not simply receive from them. We saved them.
When our DNA was infused with theirs, the offspring were stronger, more adaptable, more capable of thriving than pureblooded Anunnaki had been for generations. We were not merely their creation. We were, in a very real sense, their salvation.
Nibiru still exists. The Anunnaki home world did not die. It survived — in significant part because of what this planet provided. The minerals extracted from Earth and transported back, the atmospheric materials needed to repair and sustain their world — these kept Nibiru alive across millennia. We are not just hybrids of their genetics. We are participants in a civilization that spans two worlds.
And consider this: even the name of our planet encodes this history. Earth. EA-rth. EA — the Sumerian name of Enki, the Anunnaki geneticist, the one who loved humanity most deeply and fought for our dignity and survival at every turn. This planet was named after him. We live on EA’s world. We always have.
This is not a colony in the extractive, exploitative sense. It was meant to be a collaboration — a mutual project of survival in which both species needed the other, and both contributed something irreplaceable. What they created — us — was a hybrid species carrying their genetic legacy, the legacy of the beings already here, and the soul-signatures of whatever consciousness chose to incarnate into those bodies.
We are complicated beings. More complicated than we know.
That complication is one of our greatest strengths and also the source of much of our suffering. We hold extraordinary violence and extraordinary compassion in the same hands, from the same deep reservoir of intensity. The same fire that powers the worst of human history also powers the best — the music, the art, the literature, the love that has produced everything worth preserving.
We are not broken. We are unintegrated. The path forward is not the elimination of the shadow but the integration of it — full acknowledgment of all that we are, followed by the conscious choice to direct that energy toward life rather than destruction.
This is what I was shown in the theater.
The timelines are not fixed. They are possibilities — trajectories available to a consciousness that can choose. We are choosing all the time — in every small kindness, every small cruelty, every decision to listen or dismiss. The aggregate of those choices is what a timeline is.
The Draco-Lyran war set a template. Long before recorded time, a conflict introduced the polarity paradigm into what had been a more unified experience of consciousness. The Lyrans were peaceful, almost to a fault. The Dracos were not. The collision between those two orientations produced a wound in the fabric of collective consciousness that we are still healing, hundreds of thousands of years later.
The Council of Hatona — a galactic-level treaty reached in the aftermath of near-total destruction — introduced a defensive capability into the humanoid species. The Lyrans were so peaceful they had no defense against predators. The reptilian brain stem is the solution to that problem: our oldest alarm system, hardwired in before the rest of us arrived.
It is also one of our greatest sources of suffering — an alarm system that never turns off, in a body no longer being chased by predators but sitting in traffic or navigating a difficult conversation with a family member. A system that needs to be understood and consciously managed.
This is not destiny. This is a starting point.
Consciousness is the actual fabric of reality. Matter emerges from it, not the other way around. What we think, feel, intend, and collectively agree to be true shapes the reality we inhabit — more directly than most people want to accept.
Which means the 24 timelines I was shown are not prophecies. They are possibilities. Which one we move toward is, at least in part, a function of the choices we make right now. Today. In the small moments and the large ones.
Do no harm. Ahimsa — not as withdrawal from the world, but as an active practice: is this contributing to life or its diminishment? Can I — even tired, even scared, even when the world is burning at its edges — choose the thing that adds to the light?
Seventy-two years into this particular journey — and still choosing. Every day.
We are the choosers. We were always the choosers. When we understand that in our bodies, not just our minds, the timeline shifts.
EPILOGUE: A CALL TO CONSCIOUSNESS
Over sixty years, I have sat with people in their most vulnerable moments — the ones trying to make sense of things their lives had not prepared them for. Contact. Trauma. The collision between what they knew and what they had experienced. I know what it costs to carry that alone.
The generation of experiencers who had contact in the forties, fifties, sixties — no language, no community, no framework for any of it — are passing from this world one by one. With each one, something irreplaceable goes.
I am not going to let that happen to my story.
At 72, full transparency beats the safety of staying quiet.
The timeline is shifting. I have been watching for this for 68 years and I recognize it. The change is already here. The only question is which direction it goes from now.
Contact us. Tell us your story. Did you work alongside beings that weren’t human? Did you have experiences you’ve never told anyone because you were afraid of what they’d think? Are you a whistleblower sitting on information that belongs to all of us? Are you an experiencer who has been waiting for the right moment, the right ear, the right context?
This is that moment. We are that ear.
Disclosure will not come from governments. What governments release is calibrated to manage our response, not expand our understanding. The kind that changes the paradigm comes from the ones who were there — witnesses, experiencers, the people who know.
We are the disclosure.
Each story told honestly makes the next one easier to tell. That is how this changes.
I chose the third timeline from the most positive. I was four years old and I chose it and I have been living toward it ever since.
I am inviting you to choose it too.
Aloha.
— Janet Kira Lessin Maui, Hawaii, 2026 Aquarian Media | aquarianmedia.substack.com
Now here is the James Hallahan piece, drafting from the transcript:
WHAT THE INTERVIEWER WITNESSED A Note from James Hallahan, Paranomaly
I thought I knew what I was walking into.
I had done hundreds of interviews by the time Janet Kira Lessin sat down across from me. Experiencers, researchers, contactees, whistleblowers — people with extraordinary stories told in ordinary living rooms. I had developed what I considered a reliable instinct for the difference between someone performing a story and someone reporting one. The tells are subtle but consistent. The performers reach for drama. The reporters reach for precision.
Janet reached for precision.
That caught my attention in the first five minutes and held it for the next two hours.
She is not a woman who makes things easier than they are. When language failed her — and it failed her regularly, because she was describing things language was not built to carry — she said so directly and then tried anyway. She would stop mid-sentence, back up, find a different angle of approach. Not because she was uncertain about what had happened. Because she was unwilling to let an approximation stand in for the truth.
I have interviewed people who claimed conscious prebirth awareness. I have interviewed people who described contact experiences, timeline visions, ritual interventions by nonhuman beings. Janet described all of these things. What was different was the texture of it — the way the pieces fit together across seven decades without the seams showing, the way she moved between the cosmic and the ordinary without losing either.
She told me about a buttercup field in Avalon, Pennsylvania in 1958. A small fence. One foot raised, one foot down, mid-step. And then hours gone, a sunset that didn’t match the afternoon she had left, and a certainty in the body of a four-year-old that she had just been asked to choose the future of the Earth.
I did not know what to do with that. I still don’t, entirely. But I know what I noticed: she told it the same way she told me about her father’s PTSD and her mother’s fear and the ordinary pain of growing up in a postwar Pennsylvania household. The same tone. The same precision. The same lack of performance.
People who fabricate extraordinary experiences tend to perform them differently than their ordinary ones. The register shifts. The language elevates. The eyes go somewhere else.
Janet’s eyes stayed exactly where they were.
I am not asking you to believe what she believes. I am a journalist. My job is to report what I witnessed, not to adjudicate what is real. What I witnessed was a woman in her seventies, clear-minded and unhurried, describing a lifetime of experiences with the same steady matter-of-factness she might use to describe the weather in Maui.
What I also witnessed was someone coming fully public for what she made clear was the first time — not because she had run out of reasons for caution, but because the reasons for speaking had finally outweighed them.
She said something near the end of the interview that I keep returning to. She said that the people who had walked beside her — the researchers, the experiencers, the ones who had known things they could barely bring themselves to say — most of them were gone now. That they had taken pieces of the story with them.
She was not going to let that happen to hers.
I believe her.
— James Hallahan Paranomaly paranomaly.com
