Part 3
In 2008, I aspirated on the operating table. As I began to die under anesthesia, I discovered that it isn’t a blank or a blackness the way people imagine. Instead, the mind tries to create a scenario that mirrors what the body is going through.
My mind created a house collapsing on top of me. I could feel dust, debris, and the weight of everything pressing down. I couldn’t breathe. I went without air for what felt like a long time, and I reached a point where I was ready to let go and die.
Then I heard a voice to my right—clear, firm, and disembodied—saying, “Not yet.”
I answered, “I can’t hold on anymore.”
The voice replied, “Yes you can. Just focus on the light.”
I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t see any light. I said, “There is no light to focus on.”
The voice insisted, “Yes there is. Look over there.”
My vision was directed to the left, and there I saw the tiniest pinprick of light. As I watched, it grew—slowly at first, then rapidly—until it became brilliant, radiant, and all‑encompassing. Suddenly, boom, it filled everything. There was nothing left but the light.
I felt a rush of energy that was loving, peaceful, and unmistakably divine. I wanted to stay there forever—though at the time I wasn’t thinking in words. Looking back, I know I wanted to remain in that state. I had no sense of time. I don’t know how long I was in the light.
Eventually, the light faded, and a beautiful meadow came into view—flowers, rolling hills, a sparkling blue pond, birds, butterflies, a few trees. It was breathtaking. I didn’t even fully know there was a “me”; there was only awareness.
In the distance, I noticed a group of people having a picnic. Curiosity has always been one of my downfalls, so my consciousness drifted toward them. It was the cast of the daytime soap opera Guiding Light. They were talking about their show being canceled and how much they would miss each other. I hovered there, eavesdropping for a while.
Then suddenly, I was in an entirely new life.
I was female. I had a job. I had a bed I slept in, an alarm clock and dreams that I remembered. I ate real food. I experienced time. Everything felt solid and physical—no different from this life. I went to acupuncture, had lunch with friends, and according to the sense of time in that reality, this lasted about a week. I even boarded a ship for a cruise.
But I became ill and ended up in a hospital. I don’t know how long I was there. Then the dream shifted.
In real life, I had been placed on the drug Propofol to extend my coma. That’s when the bizarre hallucinations began—blood, gore, car accidents, being attacked with knives. Looking back, I realize those scenes probably reflected another surgery or medical trauma happening to my body.
Eventually, I woke up from the coma.
At first, I had no idea where I was. Slowly, I realized I was in a hospital. I noticed I didn’t have my glasses on, yet I could clearly see the clock across the room. I thought, That’s strange—I can’t see without my glasses. Later, that clarity faded, and I could no longer read the clock.
This entire experience changed my view of life.
I now believe in reincarnation. I truly feel I slipped into another, parallel life. I don’t know how else to explain it. I began researching parallel realities and reincarnation, and eventually I started attending a Buddhist temple. Over time, I came to understand that life is not what most people think it is. There are lessons woven into everything.
And the biggest lesson, I believe, is learning to let go of the ego—our rigid ideas of time, identity, and the belief that this single physical reality is the only one that exists.
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5. What parts of you feel like they belong to another time, another place, or another version of you?
Sharon’s Healing Space 