Autoethnography and the Paranormal: When Lived Experience Becomes the Data

I know it probably seemed like I dropped off the face of the earth—and in many ways, I did. Right after my last post, a "daisy chain" of events began to unfold that was so bizarre and intense (but far from new to me) that I could barely keep up. As things escalated behind the scenes, I made the decision to temporarily block access to this blog—not because I intended to disappear permanently, but because I needed space to do a little threat assessment.

But I am back again. I always come back, eventually. As I've stated before (disclaimer disclaimer disclaaaaiiimer *facepalm*), my creativity and productivity come in waves—as does my need for rest. There will always be chunks of time where I am capable (and inspired to) of great output. But that output is borne from those periods of inactivity. In the past, I was always made to feel bad about my natural rhythms. As if there was something wrong with me because I couldn't tirelessly produce. That it meant that I wasn't ambitious or motivated enough. That it meant that I wasn't creative enough. That it meant that I wasn't making enough noise or taking up enough space. That it meant that I wasn't successful. But successful by whose standards?

(Conversely, whenever I attempted to draw attention to myself or my activities, I was either completely ignored, criticized, or accused of narcissism, vanity, or pride.)

And what about those times when I want to share something personal—something from my lived experience? Why should that be something I have to explain away, minimize, or apologize for?

"Don't worry—this book isn't some narcissistic, navel-gazing tome All About Me," Joshua Cutchin writes in his book Fourth Wall Phantoms: Reflections on the Paranormal, Narrative, and Fictions Becoming Fact. He gives this disclaimer in the prologue while sharing personal experiences relevant to the subject of the book. What annoyed me about this is that many of us are conditioned to write this way when discussing such matters—yet the shadow of this (conversational narcissism) shows up in how we interact with others one-on-one. We talk at people, often inappropriately and in self-referential ways.

But the truth is, if I'm picking up a book from an author—especially something highly specialized in philosophy, theosophy, the occult, Gnosticism, or paranormal experiences—then I want to read about their lived experiences. (Especially in regard to the anomalous!) I have explicitly sought out their perspective. That's the entire point. This is exactly when it should be All About Me. Or, at the very least, those subjective points should still be treated with as much legitimacy and weight as any so-called objective analysis.

(We're inclined to withhold our personal experiences in appropriate forums, yet spill them endlessly at the most inopportune times.)

Throwing out the baby with the bathwater (idiom):

To discard something valuable or essential while attempting to eliminate what is undesirable. In the context of personal writing, autoethnography, or paranormal research, this refers to the tendency to dismiss or apologize for subjective experience in an effort to appear objective or credible—thereby losing the core insight, meaning, or authenticity that personal narrative brings to the work.

I've read other similar disclaimers from synchromystics and Gnostics over the years, as if lived experience is something to be downplayed or cast aside. (Alternatively, the wisest of sages suggest examining the lives of the adepts we choose to learn from.) But in these genres, the personal isn't just context—it's the source material. 

This reflex to downplay personal narrative—especially in spiritual, esoteric, or fringe writing—often comes from a deeper social conditioning that equates subjectivity with self-importance. I've come to see it as a defense mechanism, a preemptive apology meant to avoid being dismissed as self-absorbed or lacking credibility. In academic and public discourse alike, there's a premium placed on detached observation, which makes anyone working from direct experience feel the need to justify their presence in the narrative. The irony is that, in fields like Gnosticism, occultism, and the paranormal, lived experience is not merely a footnote; rather, it is the data itself.

Even my Bluesky profile ends with a disclaimer: "Also posts about health & personal life." And honestly, it's absurd that I even feel the need to say that. Why? Because it's a social media profile. A personal page. There shouldn't be any confusion about the fact that, yes, I sometimes write about... myself. 

One would assume that if someone is seeking out my profile, it's because they want to engage with my perspective, or at least get a glimpse into the person behind the posts, right? Right?! (*BEEEEP* Reply Guys on X would argue to the contrary.) Somewhere along the way, we got conditioned to treat self-expression like it needs a warning label.

I've come to the conclusion that autoethnography is the key—at least for me. My lived experiences are often far stranger and more compelling than fiction, and this has always been the mode I'm naturally inclined to work in. Yet, for the same reasons outlined by Joshua Cutchins in his aforementioned disclaimer, I, too, have succumbed to the same social conditioning. I've spent a great deal of time trying to keep my personal experiences out of the things I write and post about. 

That ends today. 

Autoethnography (noun): 

A qualitative research method in which the author uses personal experience as primary data to analyze and interpret cultural, social, psychological, or paranormal phenomena. It combines elements of autobiography and ethnography, positioning the self as both subject and lens through which broader contexts are explored. Autoethnography emphasizes reflexivity, emotional insight, and the legitimacy of subjective knowledge—particularly valuable when studying experiences that fall outside conventional frameworks, including supernatural or anomalous events.

A personal example that I think somewhat fits in with this dynamic—or, at least, is related to the social conditioning is from my old (now private, once public) X profile. I pinned a post that says, in so many words, "When I share about my health, I'm not looking for advice." I did that because each time I mentioned chronic pain or symptoms I was experiencing, I'd be bombarded with a swarm of unsolicited fixes (men, always men).

The response I received to this boundary relates to the conditioning I've been describing. The commenter wrote: "May I please ask a pointed question? It makes me wonder why you would put something so personal in your bio, then ask others to ignore it?"

Notice the sleight of hand here. I never asked anyone to ignore my posts. I asked them not to give me unsolicited advice. But in this person's framework, there's no middle ground between "accept all forms of engagement" and "be ignored entirely." The idea that I might want emotional support, connection with others who have similar experiences, or simply the ability to document my journey without receiving potentially harmful advice was incomprehensible.

The commenter continued: "We're such interesting creatures..."—positioning himself as a superior anthropological observer studying my curious behavior rather than recognizing me as a person with legitimate needs and boundaries.

This interaction embodies everything I've been discussing about the social conditioning around personal narrative. Even when sharing something as fundamental as one's health experience—and setting the most basic boundary around not receiving potentially dangerous medical advice from strangers—I was expected to justify why I would dare to share anything personal at all. (What else does that remind me of? Oh, yeah! This: If she didn't want to get raped, she shouldn't have worn that outfit... she shouldn't have had that drink... she shouldn't have left the house...)

The underlying assumption was that if I didn't want certain types of responses, I shouldn't share my experience in the first place. My desire to share with stated boundaries was treated as less legitimate than this stranger's quasi-philosophical questioning about my motives. The very act of having boundaries around my health sharing was framed as contradictory behavior requiring explanation and self-reflection.

What makes this particularly obscene is that we're talking about chronic illness—one of the most isolating experiences a person can have. Yet even this was treated as suspect, as something requiring justification.

Rather than recognizing that personal experience can be shared with boundaries, the social conditioning pushes us toward an all-or-nothing approach: Either expose yourself to all forms of unwanted engagement or remain silent entirely.

The irony is that in fields dealing with subjective experience—whether chronic illness, paranormal phenomena, or spiritual practice—the personal isn't just context. It's often the primary data. Without it, we're left with nothing but secondhand theories and hollow intellectualism, divorced from the lived reality these theories claim to address. (In my many experiences, the best doctors and therapists I've encountered are those whose lives have been touched by illness, loss, and/or trauma. Those who have lived through what they're attempting to treat. And, as the saying goes, "You know your body the best." Theory is the map, lived experience is the territory.)

This exchange reveals another layer of the same social conditioning that makes authors like Cutchin feel compelled to disclaim their personal experiences as "not narcissistic navel-gazing." While the context is different—health sharing with stated boundaries versus esoteric writing—the underlying dynamic is similar: That sharing from lived experience requires justification of motive.

Final word: Despite the critique, I'm genuinely enjoying Cutchin's book. Just wanted to say that plainly. It's definitely worth a read.