The Day I Died — and What It Taught Me About Living

When I was about six years old, my parents enrolled me in swimming lessons. From what I understand, it was mostly my mother’s idea. She had a deep fear of water, and she didn’t want me to inherit that fear or carry it as a limitation in my life. At the time, of course, I didn’t fully understand all of that — I just knew that swimming lessons were something I was going to, and I loved the water!
The pool was loud with children’s voices and splashing water. Our young instructor — looking back, I realize she was probably just a teenager herself — was taking each of us across the pool one at a time using a kickboard. The rest of us were lined up along the wall, holding on, laughing, and chattering the way kids do.
But I was never the loudest one in the group. Even then, I tended to hang back, more of an observer than a joiner. I remember watching everyone else — the giggles, the water flying everywhere, the energy of it all. And then, for reasons I still can’t explain, I pushed away from the wall.
I wasn’t ready. The moment I let go, I sank straight down.
I remember coming up, trying to scream for help, but every time I opened my mouth I swallowed water instead. My small arms flailed, my chest burned, my throat felt raw. The panic was sharp at first, but then it dulled into something heavier, almost dreamlike.
And then I let go.
The struggle stopped, and with it, the fear dissolved. I sank slowly, almost weightless, to the bottom of the pool. I remember how silent everything became. The chaos of splashing and shouting above was muted, replaced by a stillness so complete it felt sacred. The water wrapped around me like a soft blanket.
Looking up, I saw the sunlight bending through the water, golden streams rippling and dancing as if they were alive. The world glowed in slow motion. It was breathtakingly beautiful, otherworldly — and in that moment, I felt utterly at peace. Time disappeared. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was just… suspended in light and water, embraced by something far greater than myself. And I don't really have the words, other than to say, I was not alone. I felt so surrounded by love, and beings of love.
And then, just as suddenly, I was pulled back. The instructor had noticed me, swam across the pool, and dragged me to the surface. She resuscitated me there on the side of the pool while the other children looked on, wide-eyed and silent.
The next class I attended, our lesson was something I’ll never forget: how to float on our backs. The instructor told us, “If you ever get into trouble in the water, lean back, kick your feet up, lay your head back, and float. The water will hold you.”
That simple lesson has stayed with me my whole life. When I’m in trouble — when I feel overwhelmed, when I’ve lost my footing, when life feels like too much — I remember to lean back. To float. To stop thrashing and struggling. To trust that something greater will hold me, just as the water did.
In shamanic traditions, experiences like this are often seen as thresholds — moments when the soul brushes against the otherworld. Near-death experiences are initiatory by nature. They remind us that death is not only an ending but also a doorway. My six-year-old self didn’t have words for that at the time, but the memory imprinted something deep within me: that surrender can open us to peace, that beauty can be found even in moments of transition, and that life itself is a rhythm of letting go and being carried.
And then came graduation day. Parents filled the pool deck to watch us demonstrate what we had learned. At the far end of the pool stood the high dive — a ten-foot platform we had never been asked to jump from before. One by one, the children lined up. Naturally, I let everyone go ahead of me.
Then I heard the instructor’s voice: “Angela, I want you to go first.”
My heart pounded. The ladder felt impossibly tall beneath my small hands and feet. The water below looked so shallow from up high, like the bottom of the pool was just inches under the surface. I could have cried. I could have refused. But I didn’t.
I pinched my little nose, took a breath, and stepped off into the unknown.
I never jumped from that high dive again — but that one leap became something I would draw on many times in my life. Days before, I had surrendered. That day, I jumped into the unknown, trusting, feeling, knowing I was supported. Both became teachers.
It wasn’t just a swimming lesson. It was a life lesson. And, perhaps, an initiation into the path I walk to this day.

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