Near Death Experiences? Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt.

January 28, 2026

Near death experiences are usually spoken about in hushed tones. Soft voices. Meaningful pauses. The sort of conversations that happen late at night, with the lights low and the kettle already boiled.

I’ve had one. Or something close enough that the distinction hardly matters.

I didn’t float above my body. I didn’t see a tunnel full of departed relatives waving cheerfully like it was a family reunion. No choir. No booming voice asking awkward questions about my life choices. And sadly, no cosmic slideshow explaining the universe in bullet points.

What I did experience was far simpler, and far stranger.

There was a moment when the future quietly stepped aside. Not dramatically. No alarm bells. Just a calm, almost administrative realisation that things might not continue as planned. As if the universe had cleared its throat and said, politely, “We may need to have a word.”

People talk about fear, but that wasn’t it. Fear needs energy. This was something thinner, cooler. Acceptance, perhaps. Or resignation with the rough edges sanded off.

Time behaved oddly. It didn’t slow down in the cinematic sense. It lost relevance. Past and future felt less like destinations and more like ideas someone else had invented. The present was all there was, and it was surprisingly small.

And here’s the thing people rarely mention.

It wasn’t profound in the way books promise. It didn’t come with instant wisdom or a renewed zest for life. There was no sudden urge to forgive everyone who had ever annoyed me, nor a burning desire to climb mountains or learn the ukulele.

What it did bring was clarity, but not the flashy kind.

The clarity was this. Life is fragile, yes, but not precious in the sentimental sense. It’s precious because it’s unfinished. Because there are still words unwritten, conversations not yet had, and love that has not quite found its way home.

Coming back from the edge doesn’t make you fearless. If anything, it makes you more aware. You notice small things more. Morning light. The sound of someone making tea in another room. The ridiculousness of worrying about things that will not matter in a year, or a week, or sometimes even by lunchtime.

And you develop a slightly darker sense of humour, because without it, the whole thing would be unbearable.

So yes. Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt. It’s probably the wrong size and it shrank in the wash, but it’s mine.

Near death didn’t give me answers. It didn’t explain what comes next, or even if there is a next.

What it did give me was permission. Permission to write what I feel. To say what matters. To waste less time on noise, and a little more on kindness, including towards myself.

Which, all things considered, is not a bad souvenir to bring back from the edge.