I Don’t Know How to Explain It… But I Felt It
There are moments in life I still don’t have words for. They weren’t loud or dramatic—just different. Charged. It felt as if something invisible walked into the room and paused, waiting to see if I would notice.
And I did. But I couldn’t explain why.
I remember standing in a parking lot once, keys in hand, ready to drive to a place I was expected to be. Nothing felt wrong. I wasn’t nervous. Yet something tugged at me.
It wasn’t a voice.
It wasn’t a memory.
It wasn’t fear.
It was just a low, steady pull in my chest that whispered:
Don’t go.
So I didn’t.
No one else understood. Honestly, I couldn’t explain it either. But I stayed home. The next day, something surfaced that made it clear I had avoided a situation that wasn’t meant for me. I wouldn’t have been physically harmed, but I would’ve been emotionally drained—pulled into someone else’s chaos and carrying weight that wasn’t mine to hold.
That non-reason saved me.
And the truth is, I almost ignored it—because I couldn’t explain it.
Most people I work with don’t struggle because they can’t feel things.
They struggle because they can’t justify what they feel.
The questions come fast:
“What if I’m just anxious?”
“What if I’m projecting?”
“What if I’m making this up?”
But here’s what I’ve learned:
Just because you can’t explain it doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
We’re conditioned to ignore subtle signals unless they come with proof, backup, or external validation. But intuition rarely arrives with evidence attached. It shows up in fragments. In whispers. In sensations that rise and fade before you can name them. In flashes of imagery you can’t trace to logic.
That’s the challenge: we’ve been trained to believe that real knowing must be linear—structured, measurable, verifiable. But intuitive knowing doesn’t play by those rules.
It’s felt before it’s understood.
For years, I apologized for being “too sensitive.” I backpedaled. I laughed off what I felt. I phrased truths like timid questions:
“I don’t know, I just have a weird feeling…”
“Maybe it’s nothing, but…”
Looking back, those were some of the clearest signals I’ve ever had. And also the ones I dismissed the fastest.
Not just dismissed by others—dismissed by me.
Because I didn’t know how to protect something I couldn’t explain.
What I’ve come to realize is this:
You don’t have to justify the feeling to honor it.
You don’t have to prove it to follow it.
You only have to get quiet enough to notice—and brave enough not to abandon it.
There are still days when my old reflex shows up. I’ll feel something rise in me and want to override it, silence it, or wait until I have more proof. But intuition doesn’t work that way. You don’t get the evidence first. You get the nudge. Trust has to come before clarity.
And yes, sometimes you’ll misread it. Sometimes what feels like a signal is just stress. Sometimes it’s an old fear in disguise. But every time you pause, every time you lean in instead of brushing it aside, you learn. You start to recognize the difference between a recycled thought and a genuine inner cue.
Each time you honor that signal—even if no one else understands—you strengthen your inner language. You build a record with yourself. And that record matters.
Here’s what I ask myself now:
• Does this feel heavy or light?
• Is this mine, or am I carrying someone else’s energy?
• What’s my body doing right now—tightening or relaxing?
And most of all:
Would I still feel this if no one else had an opinion?
Because that’s where the truth hides—beneath the noise and the pressure to explain yourself. The deepest signals don’t shout. They hum. And the more you ignore them, the quieter they become. But the moment you listen, even once, something shifts. Something opens. Something aligns.
If you’ve ever felt something and brushed it aside because it “didn’t make sense”…
If you’ve ever walked into a room and sensed the mood before anyone spoke…
If you’ve ever had a hit that turned out to be true, even when you couldn’t explain it at the time…
You’re not broken.
You’re not irrational.
You’re intuitive.
Your body is speaking a language most people have forgotten. A language of subtle pulses, invisible threads, and quiet knowing.
The more you practice listening, the more fluent you become.
Three practices that help me hear it:
1. Pause before deciding. Even thirty seconds of silence can reveal whether the urge is coming from fear, habit, or inner clarity.
2. Notice your body’s baseline. Learn what calm feels like in your system. Without that baseline, every spike feels like truth. With it, you can measure shifts more accurately.
3. Write it down fast. Signals can vanish as quickly as they arrive. Writing them keeps them visible long enough to reflect and act.
These aren’t rigid rules—they’re reminders. Gentle ways of giving yourself permission to trust the part of you that already knows.
Because at the end of the day, intuition doesn’t ask for perfection. It asks for partnership. A willingness to listen, to test, to build trust over time.
So no, I don’t always know how to explain it.
But I feel it.
And that’s enough.
And if you’ve felt it too—even once—you already know what I’m talking about.
Don’t wait for the words.
Don’t wait for someone else to see it first.
Just follow what’s real. Quietly. Completely.
You don’t need to explain it.
You just need to trust it.
And if you hear something stir—something simple, something soft…
Don’t dismiss it.
That’s where it starts.
That’s where it always starts.
Derek Wolf
If something in this spoke to you, there’s more waiting.
I write, interact, and teach more deeply over at www.L2Bintuitive.com—where we explore how to actually live what you feel.
There are moments in life I still don’t have words for. They weren’t loud or dramatic—just different. Charged. It felt as if something invisible walked into the room and paused, waiting to see if I would notice.
And I did. But I couldn’t explain why.
I remember standing in a parking lot once, keys in hand, ready to drive to a place I was expected to be. Nothing felt wrong. I wasn’t nervous. Yet something tugged at me.
It wasn’t a voice.
It wasn’t a memory.
It wasn’t fear.
It was just a low, steady pull in my chest that whispered:
Don’t go.
So I didn’t.
No one else understood. Honestly, I couldn’t explain it either. But I stayed home. The next day, something surfaced that made it clear I had avoided a situation that wasn’t meant for me. I wouldn’t have been physically harmed, but I would’ve been emotionally drained—pulled into someone else’s chaos and carrying weight that wasn’t mine to hold.
Support the channel and future content
☕ Buy Me a Coffee
That feeling saved me.That non-reason saved me.
And the truth is, I almost ignored it—because I couldn’t explain it.
Most people I work with don’t struggle because they can’t feel things.
They struggle because they can’t justify what they feel.
The questions come fast:
“What if I’m just anxious?”
“What if I’m projecting?”
“What if I’m making this up?”
But here’s what I’ve learned:
Just because you can’t explain it doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
We’re conditioned to ignore subtle signals unless they come with proof, backup, or external validation. But intuition rarely arrives with evidence attached. It shows up in fragments. In whispers. In sensations that rise and fade before you can name them. In flashes of imagery you can’t trace to logic.
That’s the challenge: we’ve been trained to believe that real knowing must be linear—structured, measurable, verifiable. But intuitive knowing doesn’t play by those rules.
It’s felt before it’s understood.
For years, I apologized for being “too sensitive.” I backpedaled. I laughed off what I felt. I phrased truths like timid questions:
“I don’t know, I just have a weird feeling…”
“Maybe it’s nothing, but…”
Looking back, those were some of the clearest signals I’ve ever had. And also the ones I dismissed the fastest.
Not just dismissed by others—dismissed by me.
Because I didn’t know how to protect something I couldn’t explain.
What I’ve come to realize is this:
You don’t have to justify the feeling to honor it.
You don’t have to prove it to follow it.
You only have to get quiet enough to notice—and brave enough not to abandon it.
There are still days when my old reflex shows up. I’ll feel something rise in me and want to override it, silence it, or wait until I have more proof. But intuition doesn’t work that way. You don’t get the evidence first. You get the nudge. Trust has to come before clarity.
And yes, sometimes you’ll misread it. Sometimes what feels like a signal is just stress. Sometimes it’s an old fear in disguise. But every time you pause, every time you lean in instead of brushing it aside, you learn. You start to recognize the difference between a recycled thought and a genuine inner cue.
Each time you honor that signal—even if no one else understands—you strengthen your inner language. You build a record with yourself. And that record matters.
Here’s what I ask myself now:
• Does this feel heavy or light?
• Is this mine, or am I carrying someone else’s energy?
• What’s my body doing right now—tightening or relaxing?
And most of all:
Would I still feel this if no one else had an opinion?
Because that’s where the truth hides—beneath the noise and the pressure to explain yourself. The deepest signals don’t shout. They hum. And the more you ignore them, the quieter they become. But the moment you listen, even once, something shifts. Something opens. Something aligns.
If you’ve ever felt something and brushed it aside because it “didn’t make sense”…
If you’ve ever walked into a room and sensed the mood before anyone spoke…
If you’ve ever had a hit that turned out to be true, even when you couldn’t explain it at the time…
You’re not broken.
You’re not irrational.
You’re intuitive.
Your body is speaking a language most people have forgotten. A language of subtle pulses, invisible threads, and quiet knowing.
The more you practice listening, the more fluent you become.
Three practices that help me hear it:
1. Pause before deciding. Even thirty seconds of silence can reveal whether the urge is coming from fear, habit, or inner clarity.
2. Notice your body’s baseline. Learn what calm feels like in your system. Without that baseline, every spike feels like truth. With it, you can measure shifts more accurately.
3. Write it down fast. Signals can vanish as quickly as they arrive. Writing them keeps them visible long enough to reflect and act.
These aren’t rigid rules—they’re reminders. Gentle ways of giving yourself permission to trust the part of you that already knows.
Because at the end of the day, intuition doesn’t ask for perfection. It asks for partnership. A willingness to listen, to test, to build trust over time.
So no, I don’t always know how to explain it.
But I feel it.
And that’s enough.
And if you’ve felt it too—even once—you already know what I’m talking about.
Don’t wait for the words.
Don’t wait for someone else to see it first.
Just follow what’s real. Quietly. Completely.
You don’t need to explain it.
You just need to trust it.
And if you hear something stir—something simple, something soft…
Don’t dismiss it.
That’s where it starts.
That’s where it always starts.
Derek Wolf
If something in this spoke to you, there’s more waiting.
I write, interact, and teach more deeply over at www.L2Bintuitive.com—where we explore how to actually live what you feel.
Read These Next:
Why I Still Question Myself
I Wasn’t Wrong—Just Early
I Felt It Before I Knew It
When I Got Quiet Enough
Stopped Asking for Permission
Why Most People Miss the Signs
I Don’t Need to Be Right. I Need to Be Aligned.
I’m Not Always Peaceful, But I Am Always Listening
Some Lessons Don’t Come in Words
I Didn’t Plan Any of This. I Just Followed It.
I’ve Shared My Steps. Now It’s Your Turn.