There’s something uncanny, almost electric, about walking the old paths of Scotland. The air is thick with memory. The land doesn’t just hold stories, it tells them. Not always in words, but in the curl of mist over moorland, the hush of trees that have stood watch for centuries, or the sudden knowing that creeps up your spine when there’s no one else around.
In the Highlands, they had a name for this strange kind of knowing: An Dà Shealladh - the Two Sights. It was said to be a gift. Or a curse. A second sight that allowed some to see what others couldn’t, visions of the future, glimpses of the unseen, messages from the in-between. Sometimes it came in dreams. Other times, it hit in the middle of an ordinary day: a flicker of a funeral for someone not yet dead, or a cold wind through the bones before the skies had even begun to turn.
It was never something you asked for. And it wasn’t always something you wanted.
A Sight Passed Down in Silence
Long before spiritual shops and Instagram horoscopes, second sight was woven quietly into the everyday lives of Highland folk. It wasn’t the preserve of the learned or the lofty, it belonged to crofters, midwives, cattlemen, and the old women who knew the herbs and said the prayers passed down through generations. It lived in the bloodline, handed over without ceremony, as natural and unspoken as the shape of your ears or the way you take your tea.
You didn’t train for it. You just had it. And often, you bore it alone.
People didn’t gather round to celebrate the seer. They kept their distance. Not out of disrespect, but out of unease. There was a fear that if you got too close, the sight might see you, might catch something in your shadow you weren’t ready to face. Because the visions weren’t always kind. They didn’t deal in pleasantries. They came with grief, warnings, or endings that hadn’t yet arrived.
Seers weren’t oracles cloaked in mystery. They were often just tired people with sharp eyes who’d seen too much and had no choice but to carry what they'd seen.
The Modern Shape of Intuition
These days, we rarely speak of second sight. We’ve softened it. We call it intuition. A gut feeling. That sense of something being “off.” But the knowing itself hasn’t gone anywhere, it’s just been rebranded to fit more neatly into a world obsessed with data, strategy, and proof.
Yet it still shows up, doesn’t it?
You walk into a room and feel the hairs on your neck rise, without knowing why.
You wake from a dream and can’t shake the sense that it meant something.
You think of someone out of the blue and find out the next day they’re going through a rough time.
You pause before making a decision that looks perfect on paper, but feels all wrong in your bones.
We’re taught to second-guess this kind of knowing. To write it off as coincidence, imagination, hormones, nonsense. But intuition isn’t here to be explained. It’s here to be felt.
And that’s where the fear creeps in.
Because deep down, we know this:
To truly listen to our intuition means we might have to change.
The Quiet Terror of Knowing
Second sight isn’t always about fortune-telling or messages from beyond. Often, it’s more personal than that. It shows us what we already know but haven’t admitted yet.
And that’s the bit that’s hardest to face.
It’s one thing to sense a storm coming. It’s another to realise you’re the one who has to act. That you’ll need to leave the job, or end the relationship, or finally say what you’ve been avoiding for years. Intuition asks for courage. It doesn’t always make things easier, just clearer.
And clarity can be terrifying.
We might worry: What if I see something I can’t handle? What if I’m not ready? What if I can’t go back?
But here’s what second sight and shadow work teaches us:
Knowing doesn’t hurt us. Avoiding the truth for too long... that’s what does.
The truth that you’ve outgrown something.
The truth that someone isn’t who you thought they were.
The truth that you’re ready, even if you’re scared.
Folklore, Fear & Facing Ourselves
Scottish folklore never sugar-coated second sight. It wasn’t some glamorous, mystical party trick. It was treated with reverence and caution, yes, but also with a deep respect for its emotional weight. Those who carried it knew the cost. And yet, they bore it.
I think there’s a lesson in that for all of us.
Because whether you call it second sight, gut instinct, or just “a weird feeling,” that inner knowing is still part of who we are. It doesn’t have to be loud. It doesn’t need a label. But it does need your trust.
You don’t have to see the whole path. You just need to believe yourself enough to take the next step.
Want to Go Deeper?
If any of this stirred something in you, a memory, a flicker, a quiet “I’ve felt that too”, I invite you to listen to my latest podcast episode:
👉 The Second Sight: Intuition, Fear & Trusting the Inner Voice
In it, I explore the stories of Scottish seers, the fear and beauty of knowing, and how we can honour our own intuition, even when it leads us into uncomfortable truths. We’ll talk shadow work, ancestral wisdom, and how to live with the kind of knowing that can’t be un-known.
So go on. Light a candle. Make your favourite brew. Wrap yourself in something soft.
And listen in.
Your knowing is older than you think.
And far wiser than you’ve been led to believe.