The Observer
I was five years old when I had my first out-of-body experience. I wasn't afraid. I remember feeling loved, calm, curious, and completely aware. I wasn't dreaming. I was observing.
I remember seeing angels and other people as I walked up a golden stairway toward what I can only describe as Heaven. I kept thinking, "I have to reach the top." I could see it glowing. I could feel the love. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was beautiful.
After that experience, nothing about my life changed, but everything about the way I saw life did.
I was still a child. I didn't have the words to describe what had happened. I didn't try to explain it. I simply remembered. What stayed with me all these years wasn't just what I saw. It was how I felt: loved, calm, aware, and completely unafraid.
As I grew older, I realized this wasn't something everyone talked about or experienced. Some people were curious. Others were skeptical. A few were clearly uncomfortable. Their reactions fascinated me because they were so different from my own. I had never associated these experiences with fear, yet fear seemed to shape the way many people responded to the unknown. That realization stayed with me. It made me wonder whether fear is something we're born with or something we learn.
Before I ever learned to meditate, my out-of-body experiences happened spontaneously. There was no pattern and no control. They came and went, leaving me with memories I could never quite explain.
Some experiences have remained with me my entire life.
One of my earliest out-of-body experiences took me into our bathroom. I looked in the mirror and instead of seeing the child I expected, I saw an older version of myself. At that age, I often questioned why I was so much smaller than my friends. In that moment, I wasn't confused. I understood what I was seeing. It was as if I was being shown that everything was going to be all right.
Another time, I walked into our bathroom to look in the mirror, but before I ever reached it, I saw a being standing there. The surprise was so overwhelming that I instantly found myself back in my body.
Then there was the flying. I loved flying. There are no words that fully capture the freedom of soaring above everything below. I would look down at the world beneath me and simply take it all in. It felt effortless, peaceful, and completely natural.
I also loved running. I've often wondered why so many of my out-of-body experiences involved running. I wasn't running from anyone. I simply loved the feeling of moving. Sometimes I smile and wonder whether I was a runner in another lifetime. Whether that's true, I don't know. I only know that running brought me the same sense of freedom that flying did.
These were only a few of the experiences I had during my childhood.
Everything began to change when I was a teenager and my best friend introduced me to meditation.
Meditation didn't create the experiences. It changed my relationship with them. Instead of simply finding myself somewhere unfamiliar, I became more aware while I was there.
Sometimes while meditating, I would transition into an out-of-body state and suddenly find myself walking down streets I had never seen before. I would look around and wonder where I was. I saw people going about their lives, but something immediately caught my attention. When they spoke, their mouths didn't move. I couldn't explain why, but that detail stayed with me.
The experiences no longer felt random. They felt clearer. Meditation quieted my mind. It softened the constant mental chatter and created space for observation instead of immediate interpretation. That's when I realized something that has stayed with me ever since: you can't truly observe if your mind is filled with noise.
The quieter my mind became, the more aware I became. I stopped trying to understand everything. I started paying attention instead.
Then something shifted again.
I realized I wasn't just becoming aware of places. I was becoming aware of presence. Not in a way that felt frightening or intrusive. It felt familiar and peaceful, almost like recognizing something I had always known but had forgotten.
There was still no fear, and by then I understood why that mattered. Fear changes the way we interpret experience. If we begin with fear, we often stop observing. We rush to conclusions. We explain away what we don't understand, or we become consumed by it. I wanted to do neither, so I stayed with observation.
Then came an experience that changed everything.
One night I couldn't sleep, so I decided to meditate to quiet my mind. While meditating, I transitioned into an out-of-body state. I heard a loud knock coming from the hallway. It sounded so real that I immediately got up to investigate. Only then did I realize I wasn't standing in my bedroom. I was standing in our dining room.
As I walked toward the hallway, I realized the knocking was coming from the closet door. I opened it. Nothing had prepared me for what I saw next.
I didn't know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of mediumship. It wasn't something I had studied. It wasn't something I had pursued. It simply revealed itself as my awareness continued to deepen.
Even today, I approach these experiences the same way I did as a child, with humility, wonder, and without expectation.
The greatest lesson these experiences have taught me isn't about leaving the body. It's about leaving the ego behind. The moment ego enters the experience, clarity begins to fade. The desire to control replaces the willingness to observe.
So I continue to observe. I stay grounded. And I continue to learn.
I don't expect everyone to believe what I've experienced. Belief isn't the point. Speaking honestly about what we've lived is.
My hope is simply that we become more willing to explore out-of-body experiences, and other forms of consciousness with humility, to ask better questions, and to recognize that not everything meaningful can be measured.
If you've ever had an experience you couldn't explain, one you've kept to yourself because you were afraid of being misunderstood, I hope you know this:
You are not alone.
It has taken me a lifetime to speak openly about my experiences.
I hope it won't take you that long.
Because sometimes the greatest discoveries begin with the courage to simply tell your story.