Remembering How to Know: Reclaiming Our Inner Authority in an Age of Manufactured Truth

There is a quiet ache moving through the world right now.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But persistent.

A sense that something vital has been lost—something we didn’t even realize we gave away.

It’s the ability to know what’s real.

Not just what’s factually accurate or widely accepted, but what resonates. What lands in the body with clarity. What feels aligned, trustworthy, true—even if we can’t point to a headline or citation to prove it.

We are saturated with information.

Drenched in opinions.

Swirling in contradiction.

And in that storm, many of us are quietly whispering, I don’t know who or what to believe anymore.

You are not alone in that.

This isn’t just about “mainstream media” or political agendas. It’s deeper. It’s about how we’ve been conditioned—over generations—to hand over our authority. To defer to the experts. To trust the anchors, the algorithms, the headlines, the policies, the curated posts. To assume someone else knows better. That someone else is in charge of truth.

And in the process, many of us forgot how to feel our own “yes.”

We stopped noticing the subtle no in our gut.

We abandoned the slow, sacred process of discernment.

We live in a time where media has become more about manufacturing belief than fostering understanding.

The work of people like Ben Bagdikian, Robert McChesney, and Noam Chomsky has laid bare how profit, control, and power have shaped what stories we’re told—and which ones we’re not. Through corporate consolidation, advertising-driven agendas, and the subtle filters of ideology, we are fed a steady stream of narratives that reflect the interests of the few rather than the lived realities of the many.

The Media Monopoly, Manufacturing Consent—these weren’t dystopian fantasies. They were warnings.

Warnings that we have now normalized.

We’ve come to accept that media is no longer neutral, if it ever was. That truth is often distorted, erased, or weaponized. And yet, without alternative models for knowing, many of us still wait—passively—for someone to tell us what to think, who to trust, which side to pick.

This blog is not about offering you a new belief system.

It is an invitation to remember how to know.

Because truth—at least the kind that nourishes us—doesn’t come in soundbites or slogans. It doesn’t scream for attention. It arrives like a whisper. A soft inner pulse. A deep breath that settles in the chest. A moment of stillness when everything else is loud.

This is your intuition.

Your inner authority.

Your sovereign voice.

We’ve been taught that intuition is flaky, unreliable, “woo-woo.”

But that’s only because a people connected to their knowing are harder to control.

When you learn to trust that quiet voice within—the one that doesn’t need permission, credentials, or consensus—you become unshakable.

This is not easy work.

It takes practice to listen.

It takes patience to pause before reacting.

It takes grace to admit when we’ve been wrong or manipulated.

And it takes courage to follow what feels aligned, even when it goes against the grain.

But here’s what I know:

We are not lost.

We are not broken.

We are remembering.

We are remembering that truth is not something handed down—it is something felt in the bones.

We are remembering that our gut matters. That our bodies speak. That coherence is a compass.

We are remembering that no institution, no media channel, no spiritual teacher, no algorithm knows what’s best for us more than the truth that arises from within.

And that remembering?

It might just save us.

Not in the sense of fixing the world overnight, but in the much more radical way of beginning to trust ourselves again. Of rebuilding a relationship with our own discernment. Of reclaiming our capacity to feel what is real and to act accordingly.

So next time you feel confused…

Pause.

Breathe.

Put a hand over your heart.

And ask: What do I know here, if I’m really honest?

Start there.

Not with certainty. But with sincerity.

And let the truth rise—not from the noise, but from within.