After the crash, everything blurred—light, dark, pain, silence.Another near-death experience. Nothing new—I’d already had two before, but this one wasn’t charming at all. Same tunnels, same light, different faces and feelings.

Somehow, my guardian angels love me way too much—and they keep kicking me back out every time some idiot can’t drive, my brakes fail, or I’m drowning in a river.

I drifted in and out, then blacked out completely. Brain damage. Internal bleeding. Heart stopped. I flatlined. And just before the void took over, one last thing cut through: a song. Not some heavenly choir—My Chemical Romance. “Famous Last Words.” I’d queued it right before impact.

“I’m not afraid to keep on living, I’m not afraid to walk this world alone...”

That line stuck. Even as everything shut down, something inside me held on.

Surgeons worked on me for over eight hours. Almost 50 stitches. They put me back together. Saved my life—and my face. But honestly, surviving was the easy part.

Waking up? That was brutal.

Doctors told me not to look in the mirror. Said I’d never walk again. Said I might never speak properly. They weren’t trying to crush me—they were just repeating what they’d seen. But deep down, I knew: this isn’t how it ends.

Recovery wasn’t just rehab and hospital food. I had to go inward. I spent hours meditating, feeling sunlight on my skin through the window, reminding myself: you’re still here. That’s when the mantra came to me:

“I am the son of the sun.”

Weird? Sure. But it worked. Also, I didn’t need sunscreen.

I started focusing on the broken parts—my brain, spine, vocal cords. Not trying to fix, just connect. Bit by bit, something started waking back up.

My voice returned. Low and shaky, but mine. Then I stood. Unsteady, unsure, but standing.

No one called it a miracle. They labeled me “non-compliant” for refusing more surgeries. I told them to stop everything. They thought I was giving up.

They thought I was crazy. Said I was having post-traumatic episodes and wanted to call in a psychiatrist. I just laughed—even harder. The kind of laugh that comes from knowing something they don’t.

So I left. Against medical advice.

If I’d stayed, I’d still be stuck in their version of what recovery looks like. But I didn’t. Now? I run five miles a day. I talk. I live. Not because of some perfect medical plan—because I trusted something deeper.

Look, I’m grateful. The doctors saved my life. But the experience cracked something wide open. It made me question how much of what we call “truth” is just repetition. I started asking different questions.

One of them: Which organ never gets cancer?

Out of ten doctors I asked, only one knew the answer.

The heart.

Yeah, heart cancer exists. But it’s insanely rare—and almost never starts there. No one really knows why. Modern medicine can’t explain it. Maybe because the heart isn’t just a muscle.

It holds things logic can’t touch. It vibrates higher than any other organ. It connects us to something bigger.

Healing isn’t just biology. It’s energy. It’s soul. It’s that space where science ends and something else begins. What we call “impossible” is usually just unexplored.

Real healing happens when we stop choosing between logic and instinct. When we stop separating science and spirit.

And music? Music is medicine. Not metaphorically. Literally. It shifts energy. It pulls us out of darkness. It brought me back when nothing else could. It saves lives.

At the end of the day, it’s your story. Not the system’s. Not the experts’. Yours.

You choose whether to stay down or get up. Whether to follow someone else’s path or carve your own.

Own your story. Loud. Raw. Unapologetic.

“Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead.”

Thanks for reading.