The Moment Everything Changed

I had just finished helping my business partner dig out his mother's car. The snow gleamed in the winter sunlight as he went inside to check on her. Brushing ice crystals from my gloves, I turned toward my Jeep, eager to get back on the road.

 

That's when it happened.

 

My boots lost their grip on the icy driveway. I felt a sickening moment of weightlessness as my legs gave out from under me. Time seemed to slow as I fell backward, unable to catch myself. The sharp crack of my head against the concrete was the last ordinary thing I remembered.

 

Then came the light.

 

It wasn't just brightness—it was radiance beyond description. Pure, overwhelming brilliance surrounded me, dissolving the world away. The snow, the house, my pain—everything vanished. The light wasn't just around me; it seemed to pour through me, warm yet not hot, intense yet not burning.

 

"God?" My voice didn't come from my mouth but from somewhere deeper.

 

In that suspended moment, I understood with absolute clarity that this was no accident. This wasn't just a fall on ice. God wanted my attention, had orchestrated this exact moment for me to see what I had been missing.

 

"What am I supposed to know?" I asked, not with fear but with a sudden, surprising calm.

 

No audible voice answered, yet understanding washed over me. This was the beginning—not an ending. I was being redirected, my path illuminated in a way I couldn't have comprehended before my head struck the pavement.

 

After what seemed like both an eternity and mere seconds, the world began to return. Colors sharpened, sounds filtered back—my partner's voice calling my name, the crunch of his footsteps rushing toward me. My vision cleared, the overwhelming light receding but leaving its imprint on my soul.

 

"I'm fine," I insisted as he helped me sit up, snow soaking through my jeans. And physically, I did feel fine—better than fine. Despite what should have been pain from the fall, I felt strangely alert, alive.

 

I had no way of knowing then that this fall would reveal the mass in my brain. No way to understand that what seemed like a dangerous accident was actually the first step on my healing journey. But sitting there in the snow, the memory of that light still pulsing behind my eyes, I already sensed that everything had changed.

 

The Diagnosis and Divine Intervention

"You need to get checked out," my husband insisted, his voice tight with worry. Though I felt surprisingly normal after my fall, the concern in his voice convinced me.

 

At the hospital, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I waited. I expected a quick exam for a concussion, perhaps some pain medication, and a warning to rest. What came instead changed everything.

 

The doctor's expression shifted as he studied the scan results. My primary care doctor called me on my cell phone while I waited to get the results. A surreal calm washed over me as she explained the large mass in my brain, which was not caused by the fall, but was discovered because of the fall. The mass was a benign pituitary tumor, but its location made it dangerous. The specialists exchanged glances of disbelief that I'd had no symptoms—no headaches, no vision problems, nothing that would have revealed its presence.

 

"Without the fall, we might not have found this until it was too late," the doctor said.

 

The surgery prognosis was delivered with clinical detachment: "When you wake up—if you wake up-you, you could be blind, in a vegetative state, or..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

 

That night, alone in my hospital room, I felt not fear but certainty. The blinding light during my fall hadn't been a concussion symptom—it had been God illuminating what was hidden, guiding me toward this discovery that would save my life.

 

The morning of surgery, I squeezed my husband's hand. "I'll be back," I promised.

 

The anesthesia took hold, and darkness came.

 

Then, from somewhere distant, I heard my husband's voice calling me back. I followed the sound, swimming up through layers of consciousness until I opened my eyes. I could see—not perfectly, but directly in front of me. I could move. I could speak.

 

"It's a miracle," the medical team kept saying as I progressed through recovery. I was supposed to remain hospitalized for thirteen days; I left after five. The walker they provided sat unused in the corner of my room. The cane they sent home with me was leaning against the wall, never needed.

 

But the true miracle wasn't just my physical recovery. As the anesthesia fully cleared from my system, I realized something profound had shifted within me. The intuitive gifts I'd sensed throughout my life but often questioned—heightened awareness, spiritual sensitivity, the ability to see beyond the physical—had intensified. It was as if the surgery had not only removed the tumor but had also cleared away a veil between worlds.

 

"Your personality might change," they had warned before the procedure. They couldn't have known how right they were—not as a deficit, but as an awakening.

​

The Awakening and Sacred Purpose

In the months following my surgery, I began to understand the true purpose behind my near-death experience. This wasn't just about physical healing—it was about spiritual awakening.

 

The doctors had been amazed by my recovery, but they couldn't see the deeper transformation taking place within me. My connection to the spiritual realm had become unmistakable. Insights would arrive with crystal clarity, knowledge appearing in my consciousness that I had no earthly way of knowing. The gifts I had sensed throughout my life but often dismissed were now impossible to ignore.

 

One evening, sitting in the quiet of my home, I reflected on the strange synchronicity that my business partner's mother—the very reason I had been at that snow-covered driveway—was an Archbishop who trained church leaders. It couldn't be coincidence. Though I had always maintained a direct, personal relationship with God, free from institutional doctrine, I now saw how this connection to spiritual leadership had been placed in my path precisely when I would need it.

 

"What am I meant to do with this?" I asked aloud, though I already felt the answer forming.

 

The message was clear: I had been spared for a purpose. The divine light that had enveloped me during my fall had been both revelation and commission. I was meant to guide others toward their own healing and spiritual awakening.

 

I began to understand my life as a soul contract—an agreement made before my birth to fulfill a specific purpose. The accident, the surgery, and the recovery were necessary steps in preparing me for this work. God had intervened not just to save my life, but to align me with my true calling.

 

With each passing day, I stepped more boldly into this purpose. When I shared my story, I noticed how it resonated with others who were struggling to find meaning in their own challenges. People began seeking my guidance, drawn to something they sensed in me but couldn't quite name.

 

"How did you know exactly what I needed to hear?" they would ask, wide-eyed.

 

I would smile, remembering the blinding light and the moment everything changed. "I didn't know," I would answer. "But God did."

 

Now, when I look back at that snowy morning and the fall that changed everything, I feel only gratitude. What seemed like a catastrophe was a divine redirection. The tumor that threatened my life became the catalyst for my spiritual rebirth. The medical crisis that could have ended my journey instead revealed its true beginning.

 

I know without a doubt that my work continues. My purpose is clear: to help others discover their soul journeys, to guide them toward the healing they seek, to show them that sometimes what appears to be our darkest moment is actually the first light of a new dawn.

 

God saved me to help you. This is my testimony, my truth, and my offering to the world.