It was one of those glorious late-summer evenings. The sun was setting, pouring golden light across the front yard as my husband, Rob, our 12-year-old son, and I arrived at my in-laws’ house for dinner.

The smell greeted us before we even reached the door. My brother-in-law, David, was at the grill – he had ordered bougie steaks by mail and was tending to them as if they were newborn children.

Inside, my mother-in-law pulled out her family photo albums. We sat side by side on the couch, flipping through yellowed pictures of her children when they were young. She stopped on Rob’s high school senior photo, smiling at his floppy hair and awkward grin. “You should keep one,” she said. I tucked it into my wallet.

When dinner was ready, the table looked like something from a magazine – candles, wine, perfectly seared steaks. I was hungry, excited, and salivating. I cut off a big bite, barely chewed, and swallowed.

The meat stuck in my throat.

I stood and tried to cough or swallow. Nothing. My throat locked, sealing the air off. I looked at Rob and put my hands to my neck – the universal sign for choking. He was on his feet instantly. “Are you choking?” he asked. I nodded. He wrapped his arms beneath my rib cage and performed the Heimlich manoeuvre again and again.

My lungs clenched painfully, straining against the blockage. A burning pressure built in my chest – the kind you feel when you’ve been underwater too long. My vision narrowed. My hearing dimmed. I remember looking at Rob’s wide, terrified blue eyes and thinking, I can’t leave my son. I can’t leave my husband. Not yet.

And then – gently, softly – everything went dark.

What happened next defies language. I was immersed in pure love – not the romantic or familial kind, but something vast, eternal, and all-encompassing. It wrapped around me like a cocoon. Time didn’t seem to exist. There was no beginning, no end. No words were spoken, yet I understood a universal language.

I knew I was dying, but I was strangely not afraid.

I saw snippets of my life – what has been referred to as a “life review” – the kindness, the cruelties, the achievements, the failures, and overwhelming love. However, this time, I wanted every mistake to end with compassion and empathy. I wanted to forgive and to be forgiven. I saw myself clearly: a raw, unfiltered, naked version of myself, and felt both melancholic and incredibly proud of the life I had lived up to that moment. I knew in that moment that karma is absolutely real.

And then – boom. Bright light.

I gasped. Air flooded into my lungs. For several disorienting seconds, I didn’t know if I was alive or still caught in the darkness. Rob’s breath smelled faintly of red wine and panic; his forehead was drenched in sweat.

“Oh, thank God you’re back,” he said, his voice breaking. David exhaled shakily behind him. “You were out for three minutes and thirty seconds,” as if he were timing a race.

I had been unconscious long enough to experience severe hypoxia, a condition in which the brain is deprived of oxygen and can trigger altered states of consciousness. It is considered a life-threatening emergency; in four to six minutes of oxygen deprivation, brain cells begin to die. David knew that it was essential to time me while I was unconscious so he could inform the medics when the ambulance arrived.

In all the days that have followed, I have tried to understand what happened to me – and discovered that near-death experiences are far more common and more studied than most people realise.

Ancient texts such as The Egyptian Book of the Dead, dating back over 3500 years, describe strikingly similar near-death experiences. Across thousands of years, texts from Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Ancient Greek, Ancient Roman, Islam, and others detail experiences of light, tunnels, life reviews, guides, and returning to life transformed.

What I experienced – the darkness, the clarity, the life review, the overwhelming love – fits a documented pattern that countless others have experienced.

As CPR and resuscitation have dramatically improved over the last 50 years, more people are coming back and reporting near-death experiences. One study found that 17% of people who nearly died said they experienced an NDE, but the number may be higher because of the stigma associated with making such a claim. While scientists still debate the causes, the numbers make one thing clear: NDEs are a documented and surprisingly widespread phenomenon.

Later, Rob told me that when I passed out, he lay me on the ground and started CPR. David called 911 and instructed our son to go outside and wait for the ambulance. When CPR didn’t work, Rob did the only thing he could think of – he stuck his fingers down my throat in an attempt to dislodge the meat. Somehow, the steak shifted enough for me to breathe again.

When I came to consciousness that night, I insisted I was fine. I didn’t want to ruin the evening by going to the hospital. We went home as soon as I could stand. I just wanted to sleep and pretend the night had not happened.

The next morning, the pain reminded me it had. My ribs ached so severely from the Heimlich manoeuvres that I could barely breathe. The hospital X-rays showed bruising but no broken bones. “You’re miraculously lucky,” the doctor told me.

That night, every breath hurt, but the pain didn’t bother me. It reminded me I was alive, that love – literal, physical love – had pulled me back from the brink of death. Remarkably, Rob had not taken a CPR class in 31 years.

In the days that followed, I kept replaying the moment before I lost consciousness and seeing Rob’s face. We’ve been married for 15 years, and, like any long marriage, ours has weathered seasons of stress, distance, and distraction. But in that instant, when my life hung in the balance, I saw nothing but fierce, unconditional love. That love reached into the darkness and pulled me back to my life, to my loved ones, to the life I cherish.

People ask what it’s like to have a near-death experience. It was beautiful beyond description, because the love I felt is infinite. But the miracle isn’t only what happens after we die – it’s how we choose to live after we return if we are fortunate enough to do so. I hope that when I die someday, I have left the world a kinder, better place.

I do not know precisely what happened while I was choking – if what I experienced was merely my brain responding to the lack of oxygen or if it was something that cannot be explained by science.

All I know is that I came back changed. In my life review, I recognised my shortcomings and realised the importance of forgiving myself and others, even when it’s undeserved.

I used to think forgiveness was something you gave to other people. Now I know it’s a gift you give yourself. I realised I needed to make changes in my life to become a better person. I understood that kindness and compassion – even in small moments – are essential and eternal.

Most mornings now, I get up early and play Johnny Nash’s I Can See Clearly Now. Sunlight spills through the kitchen window as I sip my coffee and watch the world wake up. Usually, a few fat tears of gratitude roll down my face, for I have been given another day to live.

I think of Rob – the panic, the love – and whisper a quiet thank you: to him, to the universe, to that eternal Love with a capital “L” that I glimpsed before returning to my life.

I’m no longer afraid to die, but I am not ready to leave the life I live. Love, I’ve learned, isn’t always dramatic or cinematic. Sometimes it’s the man who keeps calm enough to save your life, the young son who waits outside so he won’t witness you die, the ache in your ribs reminding you you’re still here.

Love is everything that pulls us back to life, again and again.

Kelsey Abernathy McLean is a Pennsylvania-based writer who explores transformation, survival, and the extraordinary moments hidden inside ordinary life. She is currently writing a collection of essays about love, gratitude, her childhood, and the unexpected lessons that shape us. For more from her, visit kelseyblog.com.

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