INTERVIEW

Alice Gee | 07/07/2026

Best known for his psychic abilities, television series Crossing Over, best-selling books and live events all around the world, John Edward has not only become recognised for his psychic abilities but also for a career navigating the space between belief and scepticism, all whilst helping people explore questions surrounding grief, loss, and the possibility of an afterlife. As we sit in the office towering above London Bridge, John reflects on the unexpected reading that set him on his path as a teenager, and on the studies and experiences that shaped his approach to communicating with those who have passed, boundaries, ethics, and common misconceptions surrounding psychics. Thoughtful, candid and often self-reflective, John opens, offering insight into a career that has fascinated supporters and sceptics alike for over thirty years.

Alice: Let's start with your first experience of mediumship. What were your initial thoughts and reactions when you realised you had these abilities?

John: My journey began in 1985 when I attended a reading at my grandmother's house, intending to debunk it. Psychics regularly came there to do house parties, but I was never allowed to be around that subject matter because my father wasn't a fan of it. My dad was a New York City police officer with a strong Catholic background, so he didn't approve of anything related to the paranormal. The rule was always to keep me away from it.

That changed after my parents divorced. I was around 12 years old and moved into my brother's house, which I jokingly refer to as the "paranormal hub" because so much happened there.

When I was 15, a woman came to do readings. I decided to have a reading with her to prove to my family that she wasn't genuine. I was determined not to help her in any way, unlike what I believed everyone else was doing. My mother agreed, provided I treated her with respect, which I did. That experience changed my life.

Her name was Lydia Clara, and she gave me information that there was no possible way she could have known. Some of it was fairly general, but the first thing she said was that she was there that day to put me on my path. She told me that highly evolved beings of white and gold light were ready to work with me and that I would change the way millions of people viewed her field.

She was extremely professional and commanded attention. I initially thought there had to be some kind of trick involved, but she was very direct and serious. Then she moved from the general information to details and predictions that she could not reasonably have known.

I remember thinking that my mother couldn't have told her these things, and neither could anyone else in the house. These weren't guesses. She knew people's names and was describing outcomes that didn't make sense to me at the time. Then, about two weeks later, those outcomes happened. To say she got my attention would be an understatement.

That sent me to the public library because I wanted to understand what had happened. I didn't like the fact that she was able to do that. I felt violated. I felt like she'd walked around inside my life. It wasn't a good feeling. I started reading books written before I was born by psychologists like Carl Jung and others who explored psychology and the world of energy. I kept thinking, okay, what's actually happening here? Something is taking place.q

It was also the first time I had to go back and reframe events from earlier in my life. At the time, I thought certain experiences were normal. Then I started realising that, actually, it was a psychic moment. That was something different.

Between 1985 and 1987, I focused on psychic readings. I studied tarot, numerology, psychometry, everything that the woman had introduced me to. That's where I started, but after about two years, something changed. I had always gotten people's names during readings, but now those names belonged to people who had passed away. There was a shift, and I didn't know what it meant.

Back in 1987, I would tell people, "These were people who were important in your life, and I'm getting their names as validation so you'll listen to the rest of the information." That explanation made logical sense to me.

But it felt different. It felt like the people connected to those names were communicating differently from the other information I was receiving. The best way I can describe it is the difference between driving forward and driving in reverse. The energy felt completely different. Eventually, through another colleague, I realised I was actually making connections with these people.

The turning point came during a reading for a woman whose father came through. I couldn't get him to stop talking. I wanted to focus on what I thought she had come to discuss, like her life and what was happening in the present, but her dad just kept coming through.

Finally, I said, "I'm really sorry, but I can't disconnect from your dad. He just keeps talking." I'll never forget what happened next. She reached over, touched my hand, and said, "It's okay. It's my dad." I remember looking at her and thinking, You're okay with spending this entire session talking to your deceased father? She said, "Absolutely."

At that point in my life, I had no real understanding of loss or grief. I felt like I wasn't doing the reading I was supposed to. I thought I should be focusing on someone's life and future, not spending the whole session talking about a deceased parent.

Then everything changed. An uncle of mine died, and shortly afterwards, my mother passed away. Grief became a part of my life, and I began to understand the significance of those connections. That's when I realised why people would want that experience and why it could mean so much to them.

A: When I was a kid, I used to tell my mum that I wished I had a crystal ball so I could see the future and know what was going on. I think it was about wanting to feel in control. She would always say, "Yes, but if you could see everything, you'd have no hope.”

I'm not surprised that the woman found comfort in speaking to her dad. That would be a huge comfort for me as well.

Do you ever find it difficult when those connections come through so strongly? Is it hard to switch off? It must be important to manage that for yourself and maintain your own space, balance, and sanity.

J: When I started at 15, there wasn't anyone I could go to for guidance on the responsibility and ethics involved in this work. Looking back, I put a lot of what happened down to immaturity and ego.

If you stood still long enough, I was going to try to read you. At the time, I didn't recognise that it was inappropriate to step into someone's space or energy without their consent. I wasn't doing it from a place of teaching or healing. I was trying to develop, understand what was happening to me, and, if I'm being honest, show people what I could do.

I used to manage a video store, and when customers came up to the counter with their films, I'd start reading them. The owner kept telling me to stop because I was freaking people out. The thing was, I was often very accurate.

After my first reading, I sought confirmation from several other psychics, many of whom described me as clairaudient. At first, I was sceptical because I wasn't hearing voices. What I experienced felt more like thoughts or impressions, which I had always assumed were simply part of my normal thinking. Looking back, it was one of many experiences I came to view differently as I tried to understand what was happening.

That eventually led me to a psychic fair, where one practitioner encouraged me to pursue readings professionally. Instead of trying to sell me something, she contacted an organiser of psychic fairs in New York and suggested I start reading at the upcoming event at the Snug Harbor Cultural Center in Staten Island.

I gave nine readings that day, but the experience left me emotionally drained. On the drive home, I found myself overwhelmed by a range of emotions, and by the time I got home, my mother could tell something was wrong. Concerned, she suggested I call the woman who had originally guided me. When I described what had happened, she asked whether I had protected my energy before doing the readings. I had no idea what she meant.

That conversation became an important turning point for me. It pushed me to learn more about meditation, energetic boundaries, pacing my energy, and what many people call ‘psychic self-defence.’ More importantly, it introduced me to the ethics and responsibilities that come with giving readings. Until then, I had focused on developing the ability itself. Now I had to learn how to manage it responsibly, understand my limits, and create boundaries between my work and my personal life.

Today, I have a process. Before reading, I take time to prepare, meditate, and focus. During a session, I allow myself to become fully present with the person I'm reading for. When it's over, I consciously step back from that space and return to everyday life. I'm not in reading mode all the time. It's something I intentionally switch on and off.

Besides, it's not really appropriate. If I started stepping into someone's life like that uninvited, it wouldn't be ethical, so I don't do it in public spaces like restaurants or everyday situations. I only do readings when it's intentional, and there's a clear agreement to do so.

A: That's interesting. It sounds like protecting your own space is really important. I imagine it would be quite overwhelming to constantly carry other people's stories and emotions.

J: Some people's introduction to psychic work might come from seeing someone approach a stranger in public and start offering a reading. Whether the information is accurate or not, I think that's inappropriate. Even if your intentions are positive, you don't know where someone is in their grief journey or what they're dealing with personally. That's why consent and boundaries are so important.

A: That makes sense. It's similar to what I learned during my counselling training. Regardless of intention, boundaries are important. Friends sometimes joke that I'll be able to give them a session once I'm fully qualified, but there are professional boundaries around that. I can offer friendly advice, but that's very different from a formal session.

I've come to appreciate how important boundaries are. When I was younger, I didn't have many. As I've gotten older, I've probably become much stricter. People will say, "You've changed," or "You used to be fun." But I think boundaries are important, and they're something I've had to learn over time.

How connected do you feel to someone during a reading? When you're making that connection, what does it actually feel like for you?

J: When I'm giving a reading, I'm completely focused on the person in front of me. But once the session is over, I disconnect and don't carry their experiences with me. I've always believed in maintaining professional boundaries with clients.

One of the biggest adjustments for me was social media, because it removes many of those boundaries. If you go back and watch my live streams, you'll hear me tell people not to post personal details about themselves or their families in the comments. Unfortunately, there are people online who will use that information to target vulnerable individuals, claiming they have a message for them and asking for money. That's why I encourage people to keep their information private.

I've never had relationships with clients outside of readings, so social media was a significant adjustment. It created opportunities to communicate differently, but it also reinforced the importance of maintaining boundaries and protecting people's privacy.

For me, the more I know someone personally, the harder it becomes to read them. That's why I generally avoid reading people I'm very close to.

During COVID, I did a lot of reading over Zoom. One day, a client I had read for before booked another session. As soon as I saw her name, I remembered both her and her story.

Before the session began, I spoke to her privately and explained that I didn't feel comfortable reading for her again. It wasn't that I couldn't do it, but because I already knew so much about her situation, I felt it would affect the reading and ultimately wouldn't be fair to her or to the other people taking part. She took it personally, which I understood, but I suggested that she consider seeing somebody else.

I have a standard line that I use, which is I'm only one instrument in the orchestra of spirit. There are other instruments, and sometimes the melody your family wants to communicate may come through differently on a piano than it does on a tuba. For me, it's about finding that balance and maintaining healthy boundaries.

A: What are some of the biggest misconceptions people have about what you do? What would you want them to understand differently?

J: I think there are misconceptions on both sides.

For people who believe in this, one misconception is that I know everything or that I'm having a normal conversation with someone. That's not how it works. It's not a back-and-forth conversation. It's more symbolic, like impressions or fragments that I have to interpret.

If a reading is like the book of a person's life, it's like someone has opened it at page 522, and I'm looking at just one paragraph. I don't know what came before, and I don't know what comes after. I can only work with what I'm shown in that moment.

So whatever I see, hear, or feel, I have to interpret it. That's why I often explain where my interpretations are coming from. We don't know everything.

And for people who don't believe, they often assume that we should know everything, and they question why we can't do certain things or why readings don't work in a specific way. They tend to build scenarios based on their own expectations of how it should work.

I've taken part in studies, including at the University of Arizona, where there were several double-blind experiments. Some of this work was later written about in The Afterlife Experiments, and elements were also documented in an HBO film, Life After Life.

During one of the early studies, I asked whether there was a proper baseline measurement. From my perspective, if you're trying to understand what's happening, you need something to compare it to. The researchers agreed, and we ended up using EEG caps and other measurements to look at possible physiological responses during readings.

For me, that was important because I wanted to see whether there was any measurable connection during the process. I think data and statistics matter, but people who haven't experienced this often misunderstand how the process actually unfolds and judge it based on assumptions about how it should work.

A: I think a lot of people are sold a very specific narrative. They think that if you go to a reading, the person should know everything, like lottery numbers.

Do you find that doing live shows in a room full of people affects your ability to focus? For example, when there are lots of people present, does that create multiple impressions or readings at once, or are you still able to focus on one person at a time?

J: In my early days, I used to say it felt like walking through a school cafeteria. You're walking from the kitchen with your tray, passing all the noise and conversations, but I could still focus on certain things as I was trying to get to my table.

I think I've evolved in how this works now, but it's not the same for everyone or a generic across-the-board experience.

At one point, I think it was about proximity for me. When I was working in an audience setting, if there were about ten people, I found it easier to connect with the people I was physically closest to. It felt like I was picking up more from their space or energy, and that made the connection clearer.

I had an experience in Atlanta that felt a bit challenging at the time. I realised I needed to be on stage rather than in the audience. I couldn't be physically among people in that setting, and from that point on, I recognised that it worked better for me to be a stable point on stage and read across the room.

For me, it's about a kind of pull. It's almost like being lassoed in a direction. It guides me toward where I feel the connection is coming from. That's why you'll sometimes hear me say I'm in a certain section or with a certain row or person.

In a live audience, there can be many people thinking "it's me," but my attention is drawn elsewhere. People may be focused on wanting to read themselves, but I'm responding to where I feel the information is coming from, even if it's not the person expecting it.

When that happens, I explain it to the audience in real time. I could be right in every room I walk into, but I have no interest in being "right" in a performative sense. My focus is on being accurate.

A: For a lot of people, touring follows a fairly structured cycle, like you release something, promote it, and then tour. Is it similar for you, or is the decision more personal and based on where you feel you are in your life and career at that moment?

J: I think there's definitely an element of that. There are certain places I genuinely enjoy visiting, and the UK is one of them.

There are other places that regularly ask me to tour, and I simply have no desire to go. I'm mostly talking about cities in the US when I say that. In fact, there was one city that I removed from my touring schedule for almost 20 years before eventually returning.

A: Yeah, I suppose that's true for most people. You tend to go where you feel comfortable and where you feel safe. There are probably a few places I wouldn't rush back to either.

J: Because I identify as clairaudient, a lot of the information I receive comes through as names and impressions. When I was first invited to Japan, I was genuinely nervous. At the time, I had no television exposure there, and my first book hadn't even been published.

Although I was flattered by the invitation, I kept wondering how it would work. How would I interpret Japanese names and information? Would my own cultural assumptions get in the way? The more I thought about it, the more uncertain I became.

I initially turned the opportunity down, even after they increased their offer, because I wasn't convinced I could do it.

When COVID started, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to do anything virtually. I knew I could do phone readings because I'd been doing those for years, but I was still toying with the idea of working online.

I've had a professional relationship with Kim Kardashian for about a decade, and she reached out and asked if I'd join a group call one evening. They would bring in interesting people to give a talk or lecture, and she asked whether I'd be willing to do it.

I said, "I'll try." I was very upfront that I didn't know whether it was going to work, but I was willing to give it a go. We started on FaceTime, but there were quite a few people involved, so I suggested moving to Zoom or Skype instead.

That became my first virtual event, and afterwards I thought, "All right, I can do this."

A: I can relate to that. I had similar concerns when I started doing interviews remotely during lockdown. I wondered whether it would be possible to build the same level of trust and connection online, but it worked better than I expected, even though I still prefer meeting people in person.

J: I did get in the way of it a little bit because I had my own biases. I was used to working in a one-to-one environment, and I had to reprogram that way of thinking.

Most of my clients were over the phone anyway, so I couldn't see them. I found myself asking, " What's the difference between that and doing a Zoom group where I can see people?

The bias for me was that I didn't really want to see them. They wanted to see me, but I didn't necessarily want to see them. A lot of people didn't know this, but I would often turn my camera view off and work that way.

A: I think authenticity is really important. Personally, I've never been very good at hiding what I'm thinking. My face tends to give everything away. So I've learned it's usually easier just to be myself and be honest.

I imagine authenticity must be especially important in your work, given how personal some of the conversations and experiences can be.

J: Yes, but the subject matter as a whole doesn't have the best reputation. It comes with a lot of scepticism, and sometimes that's well warranted.

When I started doing my first television show, I sat my family down and said, "There are going to be things said about me. There are going to be things written about me. You're going to hear negative things. You can't respond because I'm choosing to put myself in that position. If I have to accept it, then I need you to accept it too. Nothing needs to be defended." I said, "I will explain," and that's been my motto since day one.

Then the South Park episode came out. Everyone asked, "Are you offended?" I said, "Nope." They asked why not, and I said, "Because I have an entire episode of South Park." It's a global show. To me, that meant I'd made it into the zeitgeist. That episode will be around for a really, really long time.

And it introduces people to conversations about loss, mediumship, grief and the afterlife because they want to know who I am, so they look me up. Does a percentage of people stay cynical? Absolutely. But some people learn something that brings them comfort. So, in a way, they did me a solid.

A: I can understand why people find comfort in the idea that those they've lost are still somehow with them. When you're grieving, one of the biggest questions is whether the people you love are okay.

Something else you've spoken about is your work with law enforcement. Given your father's background in policing, how did those opportunities come about?

J: I think the biggest misconception is that law enforcement reached out and said, "We need your help finding a body," or something along those lines.

The reality was quite different. The agent who first contacted me was actually a sceptic. He had heard me on the radio and wanted to put me to the test.

He came to me with a real case and real evidence, but he'd also mixed in some false information as a test to see whether I'd pick up on it. It was our first meeting, and I did. I also gave him information about the case and about himself that he felt there was no logical way I could have known. Some of the information related to his family, and he later spoke to his parents to confirm it. For him, that was a real turning point.

After that, he asked whether I could help him. I said, "I'll help you, but you have to keep my name out of everything." He agreed and said he wanted to keep his job. That became the start of a long working relationship. We worked together for more than three decades, and eventually he wanted to tell that story. That's what led to the book Chasing Evil.

A: After decades of doing readings, is there anything that still amazes you? Have there been experiences that have changed or challenged your own understanding of your abilities?

J: No, I think it's more of a constant reinforcement. I was talking to somebody with an addiction issue recently, and they explained that they go to their programmes to reinforce what they already know to be true. They work the 12 steps to reinforce their sobriety.

In some ways, it's similar for me. Every reading reinforces what I understand to be true, but it also pushes me to keep improving. I want to be better today than I was five years ago, and I believe I am.

That's why, when people ask if I like watching old episodes of Crossing Over, my answer is absolutely not. It was an accurate reflection of who I was at that time, but it doesn't represent who I am today.

A: Do you ever receive information that feels difficult or uncomfortable to share? If so, how do you handle that?

I'm also curious about the ethical side of your work. Are there boundaries around what you will and won't discuss with someone during a reading?

J: My process starts with remembering that what I'm receiving is an interpretation. Because of that, I have to accept that I could be misinterpreting something.

With that comes a responsibility for how I deliver information. The way I would say something in a private reading is different from how I would say it publicly, or on live radio or television. If I feel I need to share something, then I have to say it, but how I say it is just as important as what I'm saying. The way it's delivered affects how it's going to be heard.

For example, if I said to somebody, "You're going to have a car accident," that could create a lot of anxiety. So instead, I might ask, "Is everything okay with your car?"

If concerns about their vehicle keep coming up throughout the session, I'll mention it more than once. By the end, I might say, "A lot of things have come up around your car today. Maybe it's worth getting it checked. If any warning lights come on, don't ignore them. Make sure your insurance, registration and licence are all up to date, and just be a little more careful while you're driving."

I'm not necessarily sure what the issue is, but I've reinforced the message several times without frightening the person.