Not Exactly a Bright Light and Dead Relatives Beckoning: My Near-Death Experience

It wasn’t some tunnel of light or dead relatives beckoning. I didn’t wake up, exactly—I just became. I was suddenly in this massive, ancient room. Stone walls that seemed to go on forever. The place felt old in a way that didn’t even make sense. Standing in front of me were four or five men. Not angels. Not God. But they radiated something deep and ancient. Think Plato or Socrates. I don’t think it was them, but that was the vibe. Very old, very wise, and about to give me bad news.

They said I couldn’t stay. I had to go back. Back to my life on Earth. Of course, I argued. (have you met me?) But they didn’t budge. And then one of them told me why I had to return. It stopped me cold.

My fight vanished. I just said, “Why didn’t you just say so? Of course I’ll go back.”

Then came the kicker: I wouldn’t be allowed to remember it. They told me I wouldn't remember. Furious, I said,

“Are you serious?” “What’s the point, then?”

I could feel myself about to be yanked out of that space, so I begged them to let me write it down. Just a few notes. One of them said it wouldn’t help. But I pushed harder. I knew I didn't have much time. There was an energy gathering.

Next thing I knew, a piece of paper and a pen were in my hands. It felt familiar, like I’d used them a hundred times. I wrote as fast as I could. The words flew out of me in a language I didn’t recognize—not English, and maybe not from this world at all. I wrote top to bottom, right to left, frantic to get it all down. The symbols shimmered and danced, like they didn’t want to be captured.

Then boom—I was back. Heavy. Cold. A siren in the distance. I was alive, and that felt like a punch. A sad, aching kind of punch that only a failed suicide can deliver.

And then came the fear. The kind that grabs your insides and twists. My daughter. Was she alive?

This wasn’t the Heaven I had pictured. We were supposed to be there already. In a big blue house exactly like ours. Walking our old dogs. Holding hands. Me asking her all the questions I’d never been able to before.

Mostly, I just wanted to know: "Did you know how hard we tried? Did you know how much we love you?"

Instead, I was in an ambulance. Someone spoke to me in English, and for a minute, I didn’t even understand it. My brain had to translate it, like I was hearing a foreign language. And it exhausted me like translating a second language does when you're unfamiliar. And this is weird... when English returned, the other language—the one from that place, the one I had written in—was gone. Completely gone.

I tried to hold onto the words. But they vanished. Like mist. One second I knew them all. The next? Nothing. It was like waking up from a dream and grasping at pieces before they disappear. And what I had written down so quickly? Gone. Just like the wise men said it would be.

Then the EMT said it: My daughter was alive.

Science can say what it wants—brain misfires, dying cells, whatever. But maybe it wasn’t just science.

God showed up that day. He pulled us both out. My daughter survived. We both did. It was a straight-up miracle, and I lean on that truth all the time.

After 10 years in prison, I started over. I found a place to live. Got a job. Started therapy. I'm doing the hard work—facing what I did, how my choices shaped the life I have now, and where I go from here. Therapy has meant sitting in the discomfort of my past, tracing the wreckage I left behind, and learning how to live inside the consequences. It isn’t easy, by the way.

I made the decision to undergo a regression. I needed to know—what had I written down? What message had been so urgent that I begged for the chance to record it?

I had the regression.

And it worked.

I now know what I wrote down on the tablet.

Thank you for reading.