Rahu mahadasha = Visitors expected. Not from this ZIP code

Rahu Mahadasha begins like a soft glitch. Life shifts, but not loudly. Everything looks the same, but feels off. Time stretches. Reality tilts. The sky seems heavier somehow. This isn’t fear—it’s strangeness. It’s the feeling that something is watching, quietly, from far beyond.

This phase doesn’t ask for permission. Rahu moves in like fog. It clouds what used to be clear. Familiar places feel distant. Familiar people speak, but their words land wrong. You start sensing things that don’t fit this world. Maybe it’s a flicker in the corner. A dream that lingers too long. A memory that isn’t yours.

Interest in the unknown deepens. UFOs aren’t stories anymore—they’re invitations. Ancient alien theories, lost civilizations, contact cases—all feel personal. Not like study, but remembering. Something inside starts listening harder. You notice number patterns. Static in machines. Whispers behind thoughts. Maybe it’s imagination. Maybe it’s not.

The visitors don’t arrive with bright lights. They come through silence. Through strange dreams. Through voices that don’t match your inner tone. They show up in meditations, in forgotten symbols, in sudden fear or peace. You can’t prove it. But it feels real. Too real to ignore.

Rahu doesn’t want comfort. It wants expansion. It pushes you into places you’ve avoided. It whispers: Look deeper. Go stranger. The self begins to dissolve. You don’t know who you are anymore. Some days you feel human. Some days you’re not sure. Starseed ideas stop sounding ridiculous. You look at the sky and feel homesick.

This phase isn’t about belief. It’s about experience. Things just start happening. You meet people who mirror your shift. You read something and feel like you wrote it. There’s a message, always just out of reach. It pulls you forward. You stop needing explanations. You start needing silence.

Rahu stretches for years. Long enough to break and rebuild you. You’ll lose versions of yourself. You’ll lose interest in things that once mattered. But you’ll gain something else. A wider lens. A deeper question. A presence you can’t name. Some call it contact. Some call it awakening. Maybe it’s both.

The visitors aren’t always separate from you. Sometimes they are you. The forgotten parts. The distant timelines. The echoes of a place that still calls. Whether alien or ancestral, their presence changes you. You’ll never see the world the same again.

This Mahadasha doesn’t end with answers. It ends with vision. The illusion of certainty dies. In its place: wonder, silence, and strange peace. Something ancient has passed through you. Something not from here. And now, neither are you—at least, not fully.