I don’t think it’s a relaxing feeling, being rolled by a tram and crushed under. Fortunately, I don't remember anything. Just some soft, almost angel-feeling arms pulling me out right before the crash—and then I was out. Seeing my body under the tram and me somehow disappearing into air.
Just before the void took over, one last thing cut through: a song. It was from the Italian rock band Negramaro, "La Cura del Tempo." (The Cure of Time ) I’d shuffled it less than a minute before the tram hit me.
“Stringimi. Anche se questo mondo dovesse finire. Amami.”
“Hold me. Even if this world were to end. Love me.”
That line stuck. Even as everything shut down, something inside me held on.
I've already had two near-death experiences. The first was drowning in a river as a little boy. The second one had a black-and-white movie of my life right in front of my eyes, just a second before my car crashed into a bridge on my 18th birthday. Yes, same speedy tunnels and vortexes, warm light, different faces and feelings.
But this third one was different.
Very heavy energy. Dense. Dark.. Freshly dead souls on the tram. Young. Adults. Old. Their faces were numb. Scared. Lonely. Some had tears. I knew this movie very well, because I am a soul healer. And now, I was fucking dead. I couldn’t do anything. Just a part of this deadly show, going home.
Suddenly, a big, enormous light appeared. In that light, my grandma, smiling, hugging, loving me again. Then, a bigger light. Same tunnels. Same vortexes. I guess I’ve become a pro at near-death experiences. I know the way home, but I’m always dying too young. So in this life, I’m staying alive until 111—cento undici, numero magico infinito.
Third time's a charm. 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. That’s what was happening here.
Surgeons worked on me for over eight hours. Then plastic surgeons. Almost 50 stitches. They put me back together. Saved my life—and my face. But honestly, surviving was the easy part.
Waking up from the coma was the brutal part. I had zero memory. Not knowing who I am or where I am or what happened. The nurse told me my name and what happened, and every day she reminded me not to look at the camera mirror in my phone on the nightstand. Of course, I did. My stitched face wasn't pretty anymore.
Doctors 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. Textbooks. Prognosis. Experiences. But deep down, I knew: this isn’t how it ends.
Recovery wasn’t just a ton of painkillers 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 healing mantra from ray of sunlight came to me.
“I am the son of the sun.”
I started focusing on the broken parts through simple imaginations and visualizations—my brain, spine, vocal cords calling the healing lights in. Not trying to fix, just connect. Bit by bit, something started waking back up.
My voice returned within two days. Low and shaky, but mine. The next day, I started to feel my muscles in my legs. Then, despite being hooked to IVs in bed, 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 once in a lifetime, from knowing something they don’t.
I signed a bunch of paperwork and left. Against medical advice. Barely able to walk.
The first thing I did outside the hospital was grab a double espresso. I lit a cigarette and felt the sun kiss me again. Literally.
Every muscle in my face stretched from joy. I was in heaven. I knew walking out of the hospital was the right decision.
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 near-death experience opened something wider. It made me question everything. The societal systems. The limits. The regulations. And mostly, the approach to healing.
Healing isn’t just biology. It’s energy. It’s soul. It’s heart. It’s spirit. 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.
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.
“Anche se questo mondo dovesse finire.“
“Even if this world were to end.”
