Sparkly Rainbow Unicorn and Other Energies
The dizziness came first, and then the darkness, edging in from my peripheral vision.
One minute, I was walking through Nichols Park, feeling fine. The next, my knees went weak as I started to faint. I was next to a park bench and collapsed onto it, head between my knees.
I sat there with my head down, letting the nausea pass and the dizziness subside. Once it did, I looked up and I could see all the beautiful fall colors of the leaves.
It was May.
I blinked. Still there.
It wasn’t just fall leaves. Some plants were blindingly bright, deep red and burnt orange. The grass hummed soft and low. There was a shimmer to the edges of things, as if the world was gently vibrating.
It was beautiful, and for a moment I felt only wonder.
Then my thoughts intruded.
Oh God. I have a brain tumor. I was 21, and tended toward drama.
But then I heard a quieter voice, one that didn’t speak from fear. Calm down. You’ve seen this before.
And I had. I had seen it before, and I had sent it away.
In graduate school, I had made myself serious. I read difficult books and wrote difficult things. I learned to lean into logic, to sharpen my mind and focus my arguments. There was no room in that Celia for color spilling from trees, for energy humming through roots. I had dismissed it long ago, told myself it didn’t fit into the person I was becoming.
And yet, here it was. Again.
Why now? I wondered.
Nearly twenty years later, I would learn about the sun allergy. How my body buckled under the light. I realized how the dizziness that day cracked open something I had shut away. But at that time, I only knew that I was seeing something I had long ago chosen not to see.
And then another memory surfaced.
I was 11, attending a piano clinic, working one-on-one with a distinguished pianist. He was blind.
At the end of our session, he turned to me. “Go ahead and ask.”
I hesitated. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Ask what you want to ask. I won’t take offense.”
I thought for a moment. “I know that there are braille scores, but do you really learn new pieces that way?”
“Rarely, he said. “Mostly I learn by ear.”
I nodded, impressed. “That’s amazing, sir,” I said.
“It’s not as impressive as it seems,” he said. “I have synesthesia. Do you know what that is?”
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“It means that my brain is cross-wired. When I hear a note, I see a color.”
I thought about that. “Is it a special type of perfect pitch?” I asked.
“It includes perfect pitch, but it’s more than that.”
“Does music look like pictures to you?” I asked.
“Sort of,” he answered. “Being blind, my idea of pictures is no doubt different from yours.”
I turned this over in my mind. “Do you think you have it because you’re blind?”
“Maybe,” he said, “but I’ve had it as long as I can remember. So maybe not.”
I hesitated. “Do you see colors for other things? Things that aren’t music?”
“Yes, sometimes, if I choose.”
I paused. “Can you see me then?”
He tilted his head, considering. “I can see the colors around you.”
He waited a moment, an extra beat, then asked, “Can you?”
I started to say no, but then I looked at him, waiting. He had seen me, recognized me, despite his blindness.
“Yes, sir” I said. “Sometimes.”
He nodded. “I thought you might. Then he said, reassuring me, “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just how some of us are wired. It means we see things differently, that’s all. Synesthesia. Remember it.”
I didn’t, not for a long time. But it was there, in my memory, when I needed it: a neurological explanation for my sensory experience.
Synesthesia.
The Science of the Unseen: Neurology, Sensory Perception, and “Psychic” Abilities
Some people see colors around things. Others feel shifts in a room before anyone speaks. Some just know—before it happens.
We call it intuition. Some call it psychic. But whatever it is, it’s not magic.
Much of what we think of as “paranormal” has a neurological and sensory basis. The brain isn’t just recording reality; it’s constantly filtering, predicting, and interpreting data, assembling patterns before we’re even aware of them. And some brains do this differently.
Synesthesia: When the Senses Overlap
Brains don’t always follow the rules. Some people hear music and see color. Others associate numbers with textures or emotions. This blending of senses—synesthesia—isn’t a disorder; it’s just how some brains are wired.
Recent studies suggest synesthesia may be a cognitive advantage rather than an anomaly. Bochicchio & Corciulo (2024) link it to cross-modal plasticity, meaning the brain forms extra connections between sensory regions, which may enhance memory and creativity.
And then there’s what we call "auras." Blom (2024) found that some people who report seeing energy fields around others may simply be experiencing a form of synesthesia—heightened sensory integration rather than anything paranormal. If some brains naturally fuse emotional, visual, and spatial perception, it would explain why certain individuals “see” things most people don’t.
For some, synesthesia is just a curiosity—an unusual way of experiencing the world. But for others, it’s an entirely different way of processing reality. And we’re only beginning to understand what that means.
Sensory Processing Sensitivity: When the World Hits Louder
Some people walk into a room and immediately pick up on the unspoken—who’s tense, who’s distracted, who’s about to leave. What looks like intuition is often something else: Sensory Processing Sensitivity (SPS), a neurological trait where the brain processes sensory and emotional input more deeply.
Previously known as "Highly Sensitive People (HSPs)," individuals with SPS aren’t just noticing more—they’re responding to it more intensely. Studies show heightened activity in the insula and amygdala , the brain’s emotion and sensory hubs, as well as distinct biochemical markers linked to stress and perception (Dearman et al., 2025; Bouknight, 2024).
Sensitivity has long been misunderstood, dismissed as being “too much.” But science tells a different story: some people are simply wired to experience the world in higher resolution.
The Electrome: Bioelectricity and the Body’s Hidden Language
Your body is electric. Every thought, every movement, every healing process is driven by bioelectric signals firing between cells. Scientists call this system the electrome—the network of electrical activity that governs neural function, healing, and even how cells communicate.
For decades, bioelectricity was studied mostly in neurons. Now, research shows it regulates everything from tissue repair to cancer progression (Funk and Scholkmann; Aggarwal et al.). It even links to the gut-brain axis, influencing mood and cognition (Bourqqia-Ramzi et al.). This isn’t speculative. It’s measurable, but only recently studied in depth.
For centuries, non-Western medical systems have worked with the body's energy. Having discovered that bioelectricity organizes cells, directs healing, and affects brain function, Western science is catching up. Maybe "energy healing" has always been bioelectric medicine by another name.
The Biology of Perception
We tend to assume our perception stops at the edge of our skin. That intuition is either mystical or imaginary. That people who talk about sensing energy are indulging in wishful thinking. But science keeps pushing those edges.
If the electrome is as fundamental as researchers now believe, then maybe intuition, energetic sensitivity, and even what we call "psychic" perception aren’t mystical at all. Maybe they’re part of a biological system we don’t fully understand yet.
Science has always moved in this direction—slowly, reluctantly—toward proving things that human cultures have known for centuries. The difference now is that we’re beginning to map the mechanisms. The body, the brain, and even perception itself are more complex than we once thought. And we’re only beginning to ask the right questions.
Sparkly Rainbow Unicorn and Other Energies
Some people radiate deep red, almost shimmering. Mothers of newborns have an apple-green glow. Most people are dulled by a layer of smog—static, dense, like an old window that hasn’t been washed in a while.
And then there’s that person everyone turns to—the one who listens, who absorbs everything, who somehow makes people feel lighter just by being around. Her energy is golden.
This is how I see the energy my mind perceives.
The colors weren’t something I assigned. They were just there. It wasn’t until much later, when I came across descriptions of chakras and auras, that I saw any overlap.
But some people’s energy stands out immediately.
When I met my mentor, Sandra Sweetman, I recognized her right away—not by her face, but by the quality of her energy. It was bright, clear, shifting through colors like light through a prism. I had seen it before.
When I was five, a family built a house across the street. Their daughter, Deanna, was everything I admired—graceful, confident, a dancer. She became my favorite babysitter. And from the moment I met her, I noticed something unusual.
Deanna’s energy was rainbow-colored, sparkling, shifting like those prism stickers I collected.
I hadn’t thought about that in years—until I saw Sandra. The moment I recognized her energy, I knew I had seen it before.
Meet the original Sparkly Rainbow Unicorn: Deanna Schneider
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What We Push Away Still Finds Us
I’ve spent years balancing what I know with what I sense.
For a long time, I pushed one side away—the part of me that saw colors, that felt shifts in energy, that perceived things without explanation. But over time, the same lesson kept circling back: what we ignore doesn’t disappear. It waits.
Whether it’s an ability we once had, an instinct we’ve silenced, or even a truth we’re hesitant to admit—these things have a way of returning.
Science, too, has always moved this way—slowly catching up with what human cultures have long understood. The body, the brain, and even perception itself are more complex than we once believed. And we’re only beginning to ask the right questions.
And so the real question is: What have you been pushing away? What parts of your own intuition, perception, or knowing are waiting for you to pay attention?