When I was three or four years old, I often curled up in the big armchair, retreating into my own quiet inner world. I played with images that came alive inside me. The characters in my inner pictures dissolved the feeling of loneliness—there was always someone who connected with me, who understood me, even without words.
At first, it was just a game. Perhaps even a form of escape—from the tension and worries that filled my parents’ world.

One day, as a little girl, I was admitted to the hospital, and my parents couldn’t visit me for a whole week.
(It wasn’t their fault—visits were suspended due to an influenza outbreak.)
I was left in a strange-smelling, cold and unfamiliar room, unsure of what was happening.
Alone, sick, and feeling very, very small.
And when the little girl in the bed next to mine was sent home, the loneliness deepened.

Once again, I turned to the images within.
But this time, it wasn’t a game.
They became a small island of safety, a way to emotionally survive—when there was nothing left to hold on to.

As a teenager, I secretly joined my first real caving trip. A classmate of mine had put together a small group. We had an experienced guide with us, but I was completely unprepared for a cave that counted as moderately difficult terrain.

Inside, I somehow managed. Wearing a hard plastic helmet, I made my way deeper and deeper into the darkness, through narrow, damp passages, getting muddier with every step. And as the others moved forward, I kept walking too—through the tight spaces, through the dizziness, through the silent weight of claustrophobia.

At one point, the path led us to a vertical wall with a deep crevice yawning at its base. Our guide climbed up first and pulled one of my classmates after him.  The space was so tight, only one person could fit at a time—so the climber helped the next one up.
I was last in line. Following what I’d seen from the others, I searched the wall for handholds. Once I felt stable enough, I reached up to my classmate.

And that’s when both my feet slipped on the wet stone. I was suddenly dangling over the abyss, held only by the hand of a fellow sixteen-year-old.

Instead of panic, a deep calm flooded me. Time stopped. As I looked up, I saw fear wash over his face—his skin turned pale.
And yet I felt complete peace. It was as if I were resting in the palm of God’s hand—though I wasn’t religious. I was one with everything that surrounded me. One with the moment itself. 

In that quiet peace, I found footholds again.
And my classmate—thanks to his strength and presence—was able to pull me up. To this day, I’m grateful to him. For his presence. Because in that moment, he didn’t let go.

My key experience happened when I was 20, on the day of my father’s funeral. Late at night, as I was driving, I suddenly “knew” the only other car on the road, having just taken a curve, would crash into us without breaking — the driver had fallen asleep. I knew that if I didn’t act, we would collide head-on and all die (my partner and his small dog were also in the car). Instead of panic, I experienced one of the most beautiful, defining moments of my life.

I found myself outside my body, perceiving everything around me in a spherical way — time slowed down, and I acted with incredible clarity. I steered, anticipating the road’s edge bump and knowing exactly how to counter-steer, fully aware of a nearby lamppost to avoid. The experience was peaceful, expansive, and profoundly beautiful.

With a sense of awe, I watched shards of glass sparkle in the streetlight as the cars collided. I listened to the metal’s deep rumbling, calmly sensing my body’s movements as the car twisted, adjusting the steering and pedals as necessary. There was no pain, no fear — just presence, attention, and peace.

When both cars came to rest, for a moment longer, I stayed in that vast, connected state. Then I turned and saw my partner next to me, eyes open, blood trickling from his temple — I thought he’d died instantly. This shock pulled me back sharply into my small self, and I started screaming. Even when he woke and spoke to me, my panic continued. Then everything unfolded as you might expect: firefighters cut us out of the crushed car, and, astonishingly, I emerged without a scratch. My partner had two fractured ribs but was otherwise unharmed, and our little dog only suffered minor injuries. Indeed, as the police later confirmed, the other driver had fallen asleep.