The Child Who Remembered Too Much

Velarion Light Journal Entry 9

Long before I understood spirituality…
before awakening, before walk-ins, before the Codex…
there was a child who remembered too much.

Me.

I didn’t have the language for intuition.
I didn’t know what a “gift” was.
I didn’t even know that other children didn’t feel what I felt.

All I knew was that the world seemed louder to me —not in sound, but in meaning.

I could feel when people were angry before they said a word.
I could sense unspoken tension hanging in a room.
I could read emotions like they were colours or air pressure.
And I remember watching adults and thinking, even at five or six:

“Why are you saying one thing when you feel something else?”

It was like my soul had come in with an extra sense —
an ability to hear the spaces between words,
to feel the things people tried to hide,
to see beyond the obvious.

But as a child, this felt more like a burden than a gift.

It made me quiet.
Observant.
Older than my age.

While other children played freely, my mind was somewhere else —
tracking patterns, noticing energy shifts,
feeling the emotional temperature of everyone around me.

There were moments where it showed up even more clearly:

The déjà vu that lasted too long

I’d walk into places and feel I had been there before —
not in a casual, familiar sense…
but with the startling clarity of memory,
as if the walls themselves whispered,
“You’ve been here.”

The dreams that weren’t dreams

I would dream of people I hadn’t met yet.
Places I’d never been.
Situations that later unfolded exactly as I had seen them.

I didn’t tell anyone —
partly because I assumed everyone experienced this,
and partly because I already knew, somehow,
that it wouldn’t be understood.

The night everything changed

There was one moment — one I didn’t understand at the time — that shaped me more than I realized.

I was about five years old.

One night, I drifted out of my body.
What I know now as astral travel felt then like simply “floating.”
I remember looking down and seeing my small body sleeping peacefully on the bed, while I hovered above it. And there was something else: a cord, glowing blue-silver, luminous and alive, connecting me to myself.

Even at that age, I knew one thing with absolute certainty:

That cord must never be separated.
It was important. Sacred. Non-negotiable.
A truth I hadn’t learned — only remembered.

The next morning, I told my adopted mom what I saw.

And I will never forget what happened.

Her face shifted.
Her energy shifted.
Something tightened in the room — not visibly, but in a way my soul felt instantly.
A sudden heaviness. A subtle fear. A shutting down.

It was the first time I remember feeling unsafe for sharing who I was.

Something ancient rose in me — a memory not from this life.
A past-life echo of being punished, silenced, persecuted for seeing too much or knowing too much.
And without understanding why, I instantly back-peddled…
changed the subject…
pretended it was nothing.

But I knew.

I knew I couldn’t share my experiences freely.
I knew I wouldn’t be understood.
I knew the world around me didn’t have space for what I saw, felt, or remembered.

That was the day I learned to hide the parts of me that didn’t fit.
The day I tucked my gifts away to stay safe.
The day the child who remembered too much became the child who learned to stay silent.

But even then, something deeper remained — the quiet presence I could always feel with me.

Not a person.
Not a voice.
More like a frequency.
A subtle warmth just behind my shoulder,
a knowing that I wasn’t alone inside this life.

I didn’t have a name for it then.
I would call it Velarion much later.

But the Silent Root was already there —
guiding, watching, holding the thread of who I truly was
even as I buried my gifts to survive the human world.

Those early senses were the first hints of the path I walk now —
the path of intuition, remembrance, frequency,
and the Codex rising inside me.

The child who remembered too much
was the woman who would one day remember everything.

— Cassia