"I was born on a cold November night—after being told I would not survive."
When my mother was seven months pregnant, doctors said I would either not be born or would not live. I fought before I even arrived. Against all predictions, I was born healthy, full term, and strong. At the time, no one thought much of it beyond calling it a miracle. For me, it was simply the beginning of a life that would never feel ordinary.
My earliest memory is not from childhood—it is from the womb. I remember being a five-month foetus. I remember my mother’s helplessness, her sadness, the quiet weight in her body. I remember the room she sat in, the colours and prints of her saree, the stillness in the air. Years later, when I described these details to her, she confirmed them—down to the room and the fabric she used to wear during that phase.
As a toddler, around two years old, I began seeing what I called rainbows around people. I didn’t know the word aura. I only knew that these colours shifted. Some were bright and fluid, others dull, muddy brown. I could taste the air around people—it sounds strange even to write this now. Certain people’s presence tasted like rusted iron. I instinctively learned to stay away from them.
I was a moody, clingy child, often hiding behind my mother’s saree pallu, observing the world from safety. I wasn’t lonely. I chased colourful orbs of light around the house, and somehow, silently, they guided me—warning me not to touch hot objects, not to go near stairs. I listened. I trusted. I felt protected.
School was where things became difficult
By six, I could sense intentions and thoughts—what we now call energy channelling. But I didn’t know that thoughts were private. To me, thinking and speaking were the same. I responded to what people thought, not what they said. I reacted to intentions before actions happened.
Once, I slapped a boy who was thinking of poking me with a pencil. I was punished. I was called a liar. Teachers were angry. Children were confused. I made friends easily—but I couldn’t keep them. The moment someone thought something unkind about me, I would quietly walk away.
So I grew up alone
I learned to enjoy my own company, the subtle worlds, the language of energy. Yet, somewhere deep inside, there is still a soft ache—that I never experienced life the “normal” way. The carefree teenage years. The ease of belonging. The innocence of not knowing too much.
"But perhaps this was the trade-off. Some of us are born to feel deeply, to see early, and to walk paths that don’t look familiar."
This blog is not about being special. It’s about being honest. And this honesty is what eventually led me to the work I do today—helping others understand their own energy, safely, gently, and with grounding.
Because no child—or adult—should feel alone with abilities they don’t yet have language for.
As I grew older, I slowly understood that sensitivity without understanding can feel lonely, confusing, and heavy. What once came naturally to me needed grounding, language, and safety. I needed to learn how to stay present in the world while still honoring what I could feel beneath it. Psychology helped me understand the mind. Energy work helped me understand the parts that words often fail to reach.
Energy Analysis emerged from this space—not as a technique, but as a gentle way of listening. It is the foundation of Rapid Reiki, created for those who feel deeply, sense more than they can explain, or have always known there is more happening within them than they were taught to notice. This work is not about seeing extraordinary things. It is about learning to trust the quiet signals of your own body and energy.
And sometimes, understanding is the first act of healing.
Dr. Anisha Mahendrakar