By Leslii Stevens ERYT500, YACEP, Trauma Informed Yoga Teacher, Ayurveda Practitioner
January 16th, 2005. A day that was supposed to be the joyous celebration of my daughter Triniti’s birth turned into the most profound and life-altering experience I could ever imagine. I died twice that day. Yeah, you read that right. I flatlined, went to the other side, and came back—twice. And if you’re going to face death head-on, you might as well make it an epic saga, right?
But before I dive into the gritty details, let’s back up a little. Triniti was determined to make an entrance into the world on her own terms. She wanted out at 22 weeks, but I somehow managed to keep her in until 34 weeks with six weeks of strict bedrest. So, she was six weeks early, but even then, she came out fighting, proving right from the start that she had the spirit of a superhero. It’s no wonder I named her after The Matrix character, because let’s face it, everyone should be named after a superhero. Right?
Then came my first death.
I flatlined. Gone. Just like that. And let me tell you, crossing over wasn’t what I expected. You hear all these stories about death being terrifying, but it wasn’t. Not at all. It was peaceful, like stepping into a quiet room after the world’s loudest concert. Everything slowed down. The pain, the fear, the noise, it all disappeared. I was in this warm, quiet space, floating in a calm I had never experienced before. Time didn’t exist. Nothing from the outside world mattered anymore. It was like being wrapped in this soft, comforting silence where everything just… stopped.
And for a second, I thought, “This isn’t so bad.” It wasn’t some scary, ominous thing. Death was peaceful. But then, something, or someone, pulled me back. It wasn’t my choice. I wasn’t fighting to return. I was just there one second, and the next, I was back in the hospital, breathing again. The doctors had saved me. I figured that was it. Close call, but we’re done, right?
Wrong.
No sooner had I begun to grasp what had happened, the bleeding started again. This time, things were worse. Way worse! They had to bring in a special doctor from New York City, rush me into a second surgery, and try to save my life again. And wouldn’t you know it? I died. Again.
The second time was different. If the first death was like being gently nudged out of life, the second felt more like I was being invited to stay a little longer in that peaceful place. I felt like death wasn’t quite finished with me yet, like I still had something to learn. I floated back into that same quiet space, and it was even more serene than before. This time, it felt like I was being shown something, something important I needed to take back with me.
I didn’t fight it. I didn’t feel fear. I wasn’t clinging to life. But once again, I cam back. Not with some dramatic jolt to life, but a gentle return. It was as if death was saying, "Okay, now you get it. Now you're ready to go back."
When I woke up in the ICU, there was a breathing tube down my throat and all kinds of machines and wires connected to my body. My body felt like it had been through a war zone, and in a sense, it had. But I had survived, barely. Not just survived, I had been to the other side twice, and both times I brought back for a reason. Oh, and did I mention I'd had a hysterectomy during all of this? Yeah, just to add to the pile of life-changing events, I woke up knowing I could never have more children.
That moment was heavy. Here I was, alive, but barely. I had to relearn how to walk, how to talk, how to eat, all while my newborn daughter was in the NICU fighting for her life. It was overwhelming, like every part of my being was hanging on by a thread. There were moments when it felt like too much. The pain, the recovery, the overwhelming reality that life would never be the same. But here’s the thing: after visiting death twice, I wasn’t afraid anymore. The hardest part wasn’t dying; it was living afterward.
Here's what death taught me: it's not something to fear. It's not his big scary, final destination that we make it out to be. it's just another place, of peace. It's a moment of stillness, a pause in the chaos. And that knowledge changed how I lived. I came back with a sense of calm about life and death. It wasn't my time to stay there, but now I know what on the other side, and I'm no afraid of it.
There’s this strange clarity that comes from dying twice in one day. You realize that life is fragile, yes, but also that death isn’t the end. It’s just another part of the journey. Life became more meaningful, and the little things didn’t seem so important anymore. When you’ve touched the other side, you stop sweating the small stuff. Trust me.
But survival wasn’t easy. The recovery was brutal. Learning how to be a mom to a newborn while trying to piece my body and mind back together felt impossible at times. I had to face the reality of my hysterectomy, grieve the future I had imagined, and somehow keep going. The road back was long, painful, and full of moments where I wasn’t sure I’d make it.
But here’s the thing, I did. I’m still here. Triniti and I both survived, and every day since has been a reminder of what it means to live fully. To embrace life without fear, to appreciate every moment, because I’ve seen what’s on the other side, and I know it’s not something to dread.
The gift that came with those experiences was something I carry with me every day. I came back with a deeper appreciation for life and an understanding of death that gave me peace. The fear was gone. What remained was the certainly that life and death are two sides of the same coin, and I had touched both.
Death wasn’t done with me that day because I wasn’t done with life. There was something I needed to bring back, and it’s this: life and death aren’t opposites. They’re just different phases of the same journey. When my time does come for real, I’ll know that I’ve already been there, and it’s okay. Until then, I’m here to live, to love, and to share the gift that death gave me: the knowledge that we don’t have to be afraid.
That day in 2005 changed everything for me. I had to rebuild myself, physically, emotionally, spiritually. But here I am, telling the story. And if there's one thing I've learned from dying, it's this: living, really living, is the greatest gift we have. So, go live.
So, if you take anything away from this story, let it be this, don’t wait until the end to start living. I’ve been to death and back, and trust me, the real magic happens here, in life.
