My Near-Death Experience (NDE) took place when I was around 4 or 5 years old. I can't
pinpoint the exact age, but I was in kindergarten at the time. It was a very sunny day, typical of
those in Quito, the city where I was born and raised. I remember playing in the schoolyard,
going down the slide, and running around with the many other children who were there during
the break. Suddenly, as I sprinted through the middle of the yard, a kid bumped into me, and
our heads collided violently. When I looked at him, frustrated and angry, he was staring back at
me with the same shock, which made me realize that it had been an accident and he wasn’t at
fault.

By the time I got home after school, I was feeling nauseous and had a bad headache. It was
lunchtime, but I wasn’t hungry. My mother’s cousin was visiting, and both she and my mother
became concerned when I told them how I was feeling. My mother asked me what had
happened earlier that day, while my mother’s cousin insisted that I be taken to the doctor
immediately. In a blur, I recall being driven in my mother's cousin's car and being told frantically
not to fall asleep. That is the last memory I have before my NDE.

My parents later told me that I was diagnosed with a concussion. My mother explained that I
slept for a whole week at home while recovering from the blow to my head. I have no
recollection of that time, except for one of the most amazing and puzzling experiences anyone
can go through.

I woke up in a pitch-black place. I knew I wasn’t in my bed anymore. Unlike my room, this space
was much wider, unconstrained, and bounded only by a darkness like the clear sky of a
moonless, starless night. I told myself I must be in my parents' bed. Although I couldn't see
anything, I assumed the closet was to one side and the door to my room on the opposite end,
as their bedroom was laid out. I was, of course, trying to make sense of it all. Yet, I found myself
in unknown territory, in an unusual "place"—a word I must use because I don’t know how else
to describe it.

Waking up in a strange setting can be distressing for anybody. I found myself alone in a
mysterious, inky space, but strangely, I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I felt secure, comfortable, and
curious. A light shone in front of me, which baffled me because neither my parents' bedroom
nor mine had such a light at night. The apartment where we lived had a small garden next to
our rooms, but it was unlit. I wondered who had placed an electric lamp outside.

I began to focus on the light. It had a bluish-greenish hue, and it wasn’t just a simple bulb. It
formed a kind of tunnel, and its glow seemed to shift and turn, like a slow-moving, uneven
vortex. It also emitted a sound—like the murmur of many voices. When I tried to listen more
closely, the sound intensified, almost becoming deafening. That was the only moment I felt
uneasy. However, it seemed I could control its loudness, and I was able to quiet the sound until
it faded back into the indecipherable whisper of an enormous, ghostly crowd.

Most of all, looking at the tunnel of light, I sensed a complete harmony. I felt welcome and at
peace. It was an enveloping sensation of warmth and kindness. As I contemplated the light, it
either grew closer or I approached it—I’m not sure which. I did not walk toward it. I didn’t stand
up or move, as I was pure consciousness and no longer had any recollection of having a body.

As the tunnel of light drew nearer, four dark figures suddenly appeared before me. It was as if
four shadows had abruptly arrived. They stood in front of the light, so I could not discern their
identities, features, or expressions. They almost seemed to block my path, but I felt completely
tranquil in their presence.

I do not know who they were, yet I was fully aware of how they felt. Two of them radiated a
motherly love toward me. I tried to identify them, but I couldn’t tell which of the two figures
was my earthly mother. The third presence seemed to care deeply for me, and I recognized that
they were concerned for my welfare. I decided it must be my father. The fourth figure, standing
close to the light at the center of the tunnel, had a protective, authoritative aura. I concluded it
must be the doctor.

Throughout my experience, I tried to interpret each occurrence through the mind of a young child.

Recollections from my physical condition helped me make sense of what I was
confronting in this timeless, alien place. At the same time, I was distinctly aware of what I was
trying to do—how my reason was describing each element based on some past experience
from the physical world. Nevertheless, I knew I was not in my parents' apartment. I fully
recognized that the four figures were strangers. I understood that I was in a magnificent
realm—one that was eternal because time did not exist there—and that this place was our
origin, a realm of intimate, all-encompassing love, one that felt unmistakably familiar. It was
home.

Then, a deep, powerful voice began to speak. At first, I thought it was the fourth figure—the
one I imagined to be the doctor—who was addressing the others. However, the voice had no
specific source. Perhaps it came from the light. What was strange was that it conveyed a
message I could understand, even though it had no words or distinguishable language. Soon, I
realized the message was directed at me.

The echoes of both the murmur of the light and the powerful voice still linger in the back of my
mind. I can close my eyes and listen to them. In contrast, the message I received during my NDE
has become less distinct over the years. I can only recall bits and pieces. I may have been told
that I was meant to forget most of it, especially the details about my future back on Earth.

Although it could be disheartening to admit that I wasn’t able to recognize the four figures or
remember in detail what I was told, I don’t feel frustrated by it. Instead, I remember my near-
death experience with fondness, happiness, and deep curiosity. It is a puzzle I continue to try to
solve. Sometimes, I think of it as a true existential privilege. For most of my adult life, I have
been able to inquire into and explore human existence with a sense of meaning, purpose, and
wonder—feelings I attribute to the wisdom of the deep, powerful voice that guided my NDE.

The message I associate with my near-death experience stems from both direct recollections
and memories I had as a child about the NDE. For example, at some point, I was told I had to
return to this world, which seemed like a bad idea to me. That recollection comes directly from
the NDE itself. On the other hand, I also remember learning never to be violent, a lesson I
believe was imparted to the child I was during the near-death experience.

Hence, the message I received is an amalgam of precepts and impressions that, nonetheless,
are compatible and coherent. I was told that life is an opportunity we are given to learn and to
be kind to one another. We are not to accumulate wealth, but to share it, and to ensure we
leave this world with the same humility and simplicity with which we arrive. We need to take
care of nature, just as nature takes care of us. We are not to fear death, evil, suffering, or
loneliness, because their harm is limited and temporary. We are also not to expect judgment
and retribution, because we are all part of a unity that is compassionate and all-forgiving. We
must open our minds to laughter, artistry, travel, and change, because they enhance the
learning experience.

As I confessed earlier, I did not want to return to my body. The pitch-black place I found myself
in was more beautiful, caring, and awe-inspiring than anything else I could imagine. Thus, it
seemed that it took a bit of convincing. I distinctly recall the deep, powerful voice telling me I
had to return to take care of two of the figures standing before me. It didn’t make sense. As a
child, I was accustomed to being looked after by adults, not the other way around. I thought it
would be safe to go back to my bed because the two beings would take care of me. In my
attempt to interpret it, I distorted the information to fit my understanding and accepted my
return. I turned as if to settle in, ready to sleep, when I heard a swishing sound and the vision
disappeared.

A few days after I had recovered from my concussion, I approached my mother seeking an
explanation. I asked her if it was true that I had slept for an entire week. I also wanted to know
who had come to visit me. My mother looked at me strangely. Yes, the doctor had been at our
house to check on me (I didn’t mention it, but I found it peculiar that they would come under
the cover of night). Then, I asked if my grandfather had also come to see me. My mother
stopped what she was doing, stared at me, and suspiciously asked why I was asking such
questions. Of course, the whole family had been concerned. “Why are you asking?” she
insisted. “Nothing, forget it,” I think were my exact words. I left in a hurry. I also visited the
small garden outside my bedroom, looking for the electric lamp that had shone like a vivid,
mystifying vortex. It was not to be found.

It was difficult to make sense of what had happened. Even today, almost five decades later, I
still cannot find the right words to describe my experience. It is understandable that, as a child,
I could not find the proper way to communicate it to my parents, or even the strength to accept
that I had “died” in another realm, only to return to a “reality” that lacked the same truth, love,
and transcendence.

As a result, for many years I kept that experience hidden—from others and from myself. I
would think about it occasionally, as I noticed certain changes in my character. After my near-
death experience, I became more sensitive to other people’s emotions, avoided large crowds,
interacted more deeply with smaller children, and had an enhanced intuition. I observed these
changes in complete solitude. Like many other children who have had near-death experiences, I
also struggled with sleeplessness, distress from violent news, a constant craving for knowledge
and spirituality, and a reversal in learning, where the abstract became easier, and the inward
became more authentic.

To make matters worse, at age 14, I was exposed to philosophical materialism. I began to
conceptualize reality as the sole product of interactions between physical processes.
Considering my NDE, I explained it to myself in terms of the concussion and a probable
decrease in oxygen levels in the brain. It had been a hallucination, I concluded. Someday,
physiology or psychology would explain it. In the meantime, I chose to dismiss it altogether.

For the next ten years, I repressed my memories and embarked on a treacherous journey of
apathy and substance abuse. Philosophical materialism filled my life with dread and rage, most
likely because I read all the wrong books and lacked appropriate guidance. The transition from
childhood to adulthood is never easy, and I made it uncritically and evasively. I was yet to
discover authors who would challenge me to think for myself, and anesthetizing myself helped
me cope with a corporeality I found meaningless, superficial, and contradictory in every way.

I was in my 20s when two seemingly trivial events led me to revisit my near-death experience. I
went to a laser show and was mesmerized by a colorful tunnel of light. It bore a striking
resemblance to something I had witnessed as a child. The second event occurred after taking
psychoactive substances. I was feeling quite relaxed, anesthetized from reality, when I imagined
myself at the age of four. It didn’t classify as an out-of-body, spiritual, or sublime experience,
but rather as the plain acknowledgment of a child who was furious and disappointed with the
person he had become. I had disregarded my near-death experience, but above all, I had set
aside its message. These two events marked the beginning of a reevaluation of the past, a
revival of spiritual interests, and a constant exploration of intellectual attentiveness that aligns
with the value I now place on existence.

I am 53 years old. I am happily married and a father of two wonderful children, whom I take
care of and who are my pride and joy. It has required this long to come to terms with an
experience that, only now, I can narrate with some ease.

I can certainly testify that my near-death experience was more real, radically transcendent, and
deeply existential than any other insight I have gained in this world where the body I occupy
lives. I have found NDERF, IANDS, and the works of Raymond Moody, P.M.H. Atwater, and
Bruce Greyson. I have read hundreds of near-death accounts and acknowledge that there is a
community of people with whom I share an extraordinary occurrence, its aftermaths, and the
issues of reintegration. I have been to counseling and joined support groups where I have
learned the meaning of validation and acceptance. I continue to recall details and try to fulfill
the message of my NDE, which has stayed with me through both my highs and lows.

The deep, powerful voice did share with me certain elements that I keep to myself, because I
believe they have yet to come to fruition. I also regard the message as a personal quest, not
something to be imposed or preached upon others, because each of us must find our own,
often arduous, path.

As for death itself—if it is the only immortal thing (after Heraclitus), and if, as Egyptian
mythology suggests, one who does not die does not exist—then it is an illusion.