After my accident, I had multiple near-death encounters—drifting between light and darkness—until I slipped into a coma with severe brain damage and bleeding. At one point, my heart stopped. I crossed over, and in that space beyond, the last thing I heard—before everything went silent—was a song. Not angelic choirs, but "Famous Last Words" by My Chemical Romance, a song I had queued up just before the crash.
"I’m not afraid to keep living or walk alone; if you stay, I’ll be forgiven, but nothing can stop me from going home."
Those words stayed with me as I faded into unconsciousness. Even in the coma, I felt something deep inside me whispering that my journey wasn’t over.
A team of surgeons worked for over eight hours, reconstructing my body with nearly 50 stitches. They saved my life—not just my pretty face. But the most significant part of my recovery didn’t come from their hands.
When I woke, the doctors warned me not to look in the mirror. They told me I’d never walk again and that my speech would be severely impaired. But I didn’t blame them. They were simply repeating what they had learned and what they had seen before. It wasn’t their fault, but it wasn’t my story. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t the end.
Relearning to walk and talk wasn’t just about conventional therapy. It was about an inner knowing, a deep conversation with the parts of my body that had been broken. I spent hours meditating, letting sunlight pour into me from the hospital window, allowing its warmth to remind me I was still alive. The mantra that came to me was simple but profound: "I am the son of the sun." At least I didn’t need sunscreen.
In my meditations, I focused on my damaged nervous system—my brain, my spinal cord, my vocal cords. Bit by bit, I began to feel energy moving through me, slowly restoring what had been lost. It wasn’t instantaneous, but it was undeniably powerful.
As the days passed, my voice regained strength. A week later, I could speak again, though my words still felt heavy, slow. Soon after, I started walking—unsteady at first, but I was walking.
Doctors didn’t call it a miracle. They said I was stubborn for refusing additional surgeries. At one point, I asked them to stop all medical care. Once again, the lyrics from My Chemical Romance echoed in my mind: “Nothing you can say can stop me from going home.” It wasn’t a decision; it was a knowing in my bones, in my soul.
It wasn’t rational, but I wasn’t done. I left the hospital against medical advice.
Had I followed their plan, I would have stayed within the boundaries of their predictions. But I didn’t. Not only can I walk, but I run five miles every day. If I had believed their prognosis, I would’ve stayed trapped in their limited view of what was possible.
Doctors are irreplaceable, and I’m eternally grateful for their care. But this experience shifted my perspective. It made me question how much we, as a society, rely on science and logic to explain the mysteries of the human body. I began asking simple questions—questions that many doctors should know the answers to. One of them was: Which human organ never gets cancer?
Out of the hundreds of doctors I asked, only five answered correctly—the heart. The heart can rarely be affected by cancer, but it is never the origin of it. Why? Because modern medicine can’t explain it. So if modern medicine can’t explain it, who can?
Knowledge is vast, but understanding is deeper. Knowledge comes from the mind, but understanding comes from the heart. The heart—where the highest vibrational frequencies resonate strongest—is the only organ uniquely resistant to cancer. This shows that healing is more than biology. It is a divine force, a merging of science and spirit.
Healing isn’t just about fixing the body. It’s an unfolding process, a dance between the seen and unseen. It’s either a miracle or nothing at all. What we call rare is often unexplored. What we call incurable is often misunderstood. Healing begins when we stop separating science from spirit, when we replace conflict with peace. And that change heals, deeply, profoundly.
And music? It too is a lifeline. Music shifts energy, soothes pain, lifts us when we are at our lowest. It speaks to our soul, reminding us that healing isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, mental, and spiritual. The power of music transcends the physical world—it’s a vibration, an energy that connects us to something greater. It saves lives, because it heals on a level that words alone cannot.
Ultimately, it is your journey that truly matters. Your choices, your strength, your truth—it’s yours to define. Whether you stay in the hospital or leave. Whether you walk or stay paralyzed. Life is not about copying others’ paths—it’s about owning your own. Own your story unapologetically, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
“Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead.”
Thank you for reading.
