The CE5 Experience: Discovering the Empowering Truth That Nobody Is Coming to Save Us
In the stillness of a CE5 event, as lasers traced satellites across the vast Arizona night sky, a profound realization struck: nobody is coming to save us—not aliens, not divine figures, not anyone. This isn’t despair; it’s empowerment. It’s a call to trust ourselves, to take responsibility, and to step into our own strength.
Orion Nebula – 2021 : Durham, North Carolina.
Lost in the glow of the Orion Nebula : A reminder of how small we are in the vast expanse of the cosmos. What wonders do you see in the stars tonight?
It was a CE5 event—a gathering centered around initiating contact with extraterrestrial beings through meditation and intention. CE5, short for “Close Encounters of the Fifth Kind,” flips the script on traditional UFO experiences, where the contact is human-initiated rather than passive. I found myself in Sedona, Arizona, in the spring of 2024, sitting among a group of people gazing at the vast night sky.
“There’s one!” someone shouted, pointing a laser at a moving object above. Others quickly joined in, their lasers trailing the movement across the stars. At first, I felt a spark of excitement—what if? But as an amateur astronomer, I couldn’t ignore the details. Its brightness, movement, speed, and trajectory were too familiar. It was unmistakably a satellite.
I’ve spent a good amount of time observing the night sky, photographing it, and learning its rhythms. Living on the coast of eastern North Carolina has its perks—clear, dark skies, free from the haze of city lights. I’ve learned to identify the usual suspects: airplanes with their flashing lights, satellites moving steadily and predictably (you can confirm them with an app), and meteors, quick streaks of light with an occasional flash as they burn up. Every now and then, though, I’ve seen objects that don’t fit into any of those categories. Those are the ones that truly intrigue me.
Do I believe there’s life beyond Earth? Absolutely. The universe is far too vast for us to be alone. Are they visiting us? It’s a fascinating idea, one I enjoy pondering. But it always circles back to a question: why would they?
“There’s another one!” someone shouted again, laser following yet another satellite. I didn’t have the heart to break it to them—they were so caught up in the moment. But then something unexpected happened. A few voices began crying out, “Come save us! Save us!” Others joined in, their pleas rising into the cold, indifferent night. It felt surreal, like a scene straight out of Horton Hears a Who: “We are here! We are here!”
As I sat there on the chilly ground, listening to these heartfelt cries into the vast silence of the cosmos, I felt a wave of deep sadness. It wasn’t just sadness—it was a grief, a mourning, like losing something profoundly precious. I began to cry, sitting there, a man in his late 40s, weeping under the stars. The question gnawed at me: why am I feeling this way?
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this. It took me back to moments in church as a kid, listening to prayers of desperation, pleas for salvation. It struck the same chord. After some time, I whispered, “Thank you,” got up, and walked away. On my way out, I ran into a friend. We chatted for a bit, and as he glanced over at the group, he laughed and said, “Do they realize we’re the aliens?”
His words stuck with me. As I mulled it over in the following months, the realization became crystal clear: nobody is coming to save us.
Not Jesus. Not Buddha. Not aliens. Nobody is coming. We’re here, on this spinning rock, and it’s up to us to figure it out. Think about it: if an advanced civilization capable of traversing galaxies exists, they would also likely possess deep spiritual insight. They’d know better than to intervene. Landing here would turn them into instant gods, and humanity would become dependent on them, endlessly asking for answers, miracles, and solutions—just like so many prayers to God or the universe. They’d see the wisdom in letting us stumble, fall, and learn to stand on our own.
The phrase “nobody is coming to save us” might sound cold, even harsh. It can feel isolating at first. But the more I’ve sat with it, especially through my shamanic practices, the more I’ve come to see it as empowering. Where there’s shadow, there’s light. And in that light, shadow. The realization that we’re not waiting for a savior isn’t despair—it’s an invitation.
It’s a call to action.
To trust ourselves. To take responsibility for our own lives and our collective future. To stop outsourcing our power and start creating the world we want to live in.
It begins with something radical: trusting ourselves. Trusting that we have what it takes to navigate the challenges we face, to grow, to heal, and to thrive. When we embrace that truth, we stop waiting for rescue and start stepping into our own strength.
Nobody is coming to save us. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the greatest gift we could ask for.