There are moments in life that divide your existence into two parts: Who you were before and who you became after.
For me, that moment happened when I was rushed into ICU with a massive internal haemorrhage and told that things “didn’t look good.” To this day, it remains the hardest experience of my life.
I remember drifting in and out of consciousness while being rushed through the hospital. The scans had revealed that my chest cavity was filling with blood.
Every time I tried to lift my head, I would pass out again. My blood pressure had dropped dangerously low; my body was beginning to shut down. Then came that look from the doctor—the expression that says: “We are running out of time.”
During all of this, my wife became my rock. Because it was during COVID, she wasn’t allowed into ICU with me, which was devastating for both of us.
I remember messaging her to say they were taking me into emergency surgery. I tried to reassure her and told her everything would be fine, though I wasn’t sure of that at all. I only remember squeezing her hand weakly to show her: “I heard you.”
As they rushed me into theatre, the surgical team was scrambling for a major emergency thoracotomy. I knew enough medically to understand: this was serious.
For the first time in my life, I genuinely thought: “I might die here.” What surprised me most was not fear, but regret. Not about money or achievements, but about experiences. I suddenly realised there were still so many moments I had not yet lived.
I remember speaking to a nurse before the anaesthetic mask went over my face. I knew my organs were beginning to fail. I remember saying goodbye to the surgeon—possibly for the last time—and then a strange thought entered my mind:
“If this is what dying feels like… it’s not as terrifying as I imagined.”
Then the anaesthetic took over, and everything went black.
Six hours later, I woke up restrained to the bed with a ventilator tube down my throat. The worst part wasn’t the pain; it was the feeling that I could not breathe. My lungs had filled with mucus and were not being suctioned properly.
Imagine choking and gasping for air—except continuously. I tried desperately to get the nurse’s attention by shaking the bed, only to be told: “Behave yourself. Go back to sleep.” I felt completely helpless, terrified, and alone.
At some point, I realised panic would kill me faster. I had to regain control.
I forced myself to calm down while feeling like I was drowning. Somehow, I survived the night.
Later, I was told the surgery I survived carried roughly a 10% survival rate in my condition. The surgeon told me that when he arrived, I was essentially dying on the operating table.
To this day, nobody fully understands how I survived. Maybe it was fitness, years of elite sport, luck, or something bigger than all of us.
Survival is where a completely different battle begins. Afterward came:
But something unexpected happened too: I became happier. Not because suffering is beautiful, but because nearly losing everything changes your perspective. The small things matter more. Time matters more. People matter more.
One of the biggest lessons I learned is that human beings are capable of adapting to far more than they think they can. Today, despite chronic pain, I run a full-time counselling practice. I continue helping others through anxiety, trauma, ADHD, grief, and emotional overwhelm.
Ironically… I think nearly dying taught me how to truly live.
Sometimes life breaks the illusion that we are in control. For me, that experience changed the way I see resilience and happiness itself. If there is one thing I hope people take away from this story, it is this: Human beings are far more resilient than they think.
Even when you believe you cannot survive another second… sometimes you do. And sometimes you come out the other side seeing life in a completely different way.
Byron Werbeloff Centred Counselling & Mediation