They say people find psychics in times of crisis. During my most recent crisis, David The Medium found me. Or, more accurately, his publicist did.
David had been a hot topic in the office when the email came in asking if I’d like a private reading with one of the most in-demand psychic mediums in the country, and the only one to hold public readings at the Sydney Opera House — twice.
Our beauty director had seen him for a reading a few days earlier, and he had told her spooky, uncanny things that she was adamant no-one could have known: like a fleeting comment she’d made to her brother — and then forgotten about — two days prior; he’d correctly named people in her life on the first attempt; he told her she would receive signs from family members who’d passed away in the form of magpies, which then began appearing in the most unlikely of places and behaving really weirdly.
During these conversations, only one person (the magazine’s fact-checker, go figure) attempted to poke holes in her reading. Some things, sure — we’re admittedly in a sort-of-public-facing industry, so we’re easy to find online. But unless David The Medium is to magpies what the Wicked Witch of the West is to flying monkeys, or he’s in the habit of bugging people’s friends and family members in the days leading up to their readings, it’s all pretty astonishing. (Although, if he was able to identify, locate and mic-up close contacts while they remain none the wiser, would that be more impressive than communicating with the spirit realm?)
So when his publicist reached out to me offering that private reading, the idea had become irresistible. Plus, truth be told, I was in crisis (and, importantly, in denial about being in crisis)
Any other time, I probably would have passed on the invitation. I’ve never been one to feel curious about how my life is going to turn out, even though I have the kind of anxiety that suggests otherwise. And as a lapsed Catholic, I still have a hint of No, that’s not right, someone grab the Holy Water when it comes to the idea of lingering spirits. I’m also scared of hearing something I can’t unhear. And also, isn’t talking to my deceased loved ones just going to be really, really sad?
But in the three-month lead-up to that email, a lot had happened. My aunt died. I finished a huge, months-long project that had consumed me entirely. I’d been drinking too much wine and not enough water. I’d been staying up late and getting up early. I was not exercising at all, and then exercising too much. Then, my partner’s father passed away, and the very next day, my sister gave birth to twins.
I told people it was just emotional whiplash. My body had other ideas: days-long vertigo, weekly migraines, parainfluenza (a diagnosis I was frustrated with because it wasn’t as dramatic as how I felt. Yes, I am a Leo, thanks for asking), and an eye twitch and a rash that, come to think of it, still haven’t gone away.
So, two funerals, another deadline. Another migraine. Baby cuddles (thank god for them). Fighting with the landlord, moving house (in the rain, because, of course). More baby cuddles. Another deadline. As someone who usually thrives on the chaos of having multiple stories on the go at once, it felt like my fingers were made of lead too heavy to type with.
And still — crisis, me? No way. The people around me are going through things so much harder: it wasn’t my sister or my dad who passed away; they’re not my newborn twins; I’m not the editor of the magazines that are going to print; we were only moving upstairs, not even to a different building. There’s a genocide in Gaza and a war in Ukraine and there are people that are dying, Kim. Nothing was happening to me, just around me. How I was feeling was not a big deal, really. And yet.
So, I said yes please and thank you to David The Medium’s publicist. My reading was scheduled for three days before my birthday. The timing felt auspicious.
I see now why millennials and gen Z are turning to psychics instead of therapists. My reading with David felt like the most enlightening therapy session of my life — most likely because I wasn’t being called out for any of my bullshit and was neither encouraged to reflect on my actions nor take accountability for them.
Instead, it felt like everyone I’ve ever loved who has passed away was stopping by to simply say, “Hello, I love you, and I see you.” It wasn’t sad, it was euphoric. I don’t remember walking back to the office — I’m pretty sure I was floating.
The way David The Medium works is this: he has a bunch of the ‘claires’: clairvoyance (psychic vision), clairgustance (taste), clairsalience (smell) and clairsentience (physical sensation). He essentially lends his body, mind, voice and senses to the spirits, and then communicates for them. That sounds nightmarish to me, but thankfully, he knows how to switch it off. The spirits can offer predictions for up to 12 months into the future, and can even comment on other people in your life who are still alive — like inter-realm gossip.
David wasn’t always psychic. He was thriving in the corporate world when he went to see a medium with a friend, almost as a joke. She immediately spotted that he had the gift and sent him to a psychic mentoring program. At first, it was a party trick. Then, as word spread, so did his popularity. Now, the 38-year-old is in full-time contact with the other side.
During the reading, he rarely looks at me — except to laugh at a joke one of my family members makes, or ask for confirmation on a name he’s guessed (spoiler: always correct) or for more context about a message that’s coming through. Mostly, he has his eyes closed and is tapping the arm of his chair with his fingertips, like spiritual Morse code.
As the first spirit enters the room, my scepticism immediately slips out the door behind it. It’s my partner’s dad. I’d been wondering if he’d show up: maybe it would be too soon; maybe his memory loss meant he didn’t know me, so when the alarm sounded in the other realm that Alexandra English was waiting, he didn’t know to come forward; maybe he retained his cynicism even on the other side; maybe none of this was real.
“A man has followed you into the room,” David says. “He’s not your dad, but he’s someone’s dad. Is there a [insert my partner’s correct name here]?” I’m floored, but also trying to appear unflappable. I don’t want to accidentally give anything away. I say yes, there’s someone with that name in my life, but I don’t mention that it’s my partner. “[This spirit] knows you didn’t think he’d come today,” David continues. “And he knows that you think he wouldn’t know you, but he wants you to know that he does know you.” David goes on to correctly name my partner’s father, and how he passed — and when. He even speaks with the right sense of humour. “He’s mainly here to tell his son he loves him, and to test him because he knows he won’t believe this.” David laughs at that.
David correctly names my immediate family members, who are all living. “Who’s Daniel?” My brother. “Who’s Elizabeth?” That’s my sister’s middle name. “Oh yes, Megan Elizabeth” Correct. “And who’s Jac?” My other sister, Jacqueline. “What about Lee, Leo?” Leonie, my mum. He doesn’t get “Geoff” for my dad — I think it was the G instead of a J that threw him off.
He talks about my sister’s newborn twins: a boy and a girl. Our family jokes that my niece has been here before; she just has that vibe. “Your niece, she’s been on earth before,” David says. “Oh?” I say. My resolve is crumbling. “Her last memories are of sitting around with her grandkids, and she closes her eyes and then she wakes up and she’s a baby again and she thinks, ‘What the fuck is this?’” Now we’re both laughing. That sounds right.
David goes into great detail about my other sister’s work drama, explaining that she needs a new job and suggests a different industry that, to me, doesn’t sound like a natural fit. When I speak to her that afternoon, it turns out she’s applied for a job in the exact industry he mentioned. A week later, she gets the job.
He asks me if I’ve moved or am moving (at this point, we were in one apartment while waiting for cleaners to come to the other) and warns that the bathroom fan doesn’t work. That’s weirdly specific and accurate. When I tell the electrician that I called him because a psychic told me to, he doesn’t really react. Maybe he’s heard this before. Maybe he wants to get away from me.
Some parts of my reading are less shocking: David says I’m iron-deficient and that I want to go to Europe next year (I am exactly like the other girls). He says I should watch out for potholes; that there are changes coming at work. There are some parts of my reading that a sceptic could “A ha!” at: I’ve posted all my siblings on my Instagram at some point, so even though their profiles are private, you can see their names; he knows where I work; he could have checked obituaries for mine and my partner’s surnames. But the manpower behind that level of in-depth research for multiple readings a day, and then the sheer ability to remember it all — I’m not convincingly unconvinced. I do think this is real. There was too much that was unknowable.
As the reading is wrapping up, David asks, “Why is everyone up here singing ‘Happy Birthday’?” That’s when I finally burst into tears. I’m misty-eyed writing this even now, imagining grandparents, my partner’s dad, my aunt, long-lost friends all huddling together for a chorus of “Happy Birthday”.
A funny thing happened when I went to see my therapist next. I noticed that I was not giving her any information — I was waiting for her to guess; to contact the spirit realm and tell me what was going on with me. She was asking questions, and I was resisting answering them for fear of giving anything away, of falling for a “trick”. For the first half of our session, I gained absolutely nothing because I was not a willing participant until I snapped out of it.
And so I don’t think we should be replacing our therapists with psychics. We need to vocalise what’s going on in our lives and minds and take active steps to try to better our lives, with the help of a curious and knowledgeable professional. Occasional encouragement from family members in the other realm who can see that we’re on the right track and want to tell us they love us is just the cherry on top. If you believe in that kind of thing.
David The Medium will be at the Sydney Opera House on October 18. He will continue his tour across Australia and New Zealand. For tickets and more information, see here.
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