Fiona Connolly

Five years ago, I was just another doctor in Dublin, Ireland, who dismissed near-death experiences as brain chemistry. I had patients tell me about tunnels of light, long-dead relatives, and a peace that words couldn’t capture. I would nod and listen, but in my mind, I attributed it all to the brain’s final moments—oxygen deprivation or neurons misfiring. I never thought I’d experience something like that myself.

It started with a virus that seemed harmless at first, the usual flu symptoms. But within days, I collapsed. Bacterial meningitis, they told my husband, David, as I slipped into a coma. I was unconscious for six days. The prognosis wasn’t good.

In those six days, I left my body. I watched everything from above—David sitting beside me, my colleagues trying to keep me alive. There was no fear, just a strange calm. Then, I was pulled through a tunnel, not like the physical ones we know, but something else entirely. On the other side was light, warm and welcoming. My grandparents were there, smiling, peaceful, waiting. I felt a pull to stay, but I knew, somehow, I had to return.

When I woke, it wasn’t dramatic—no sudden gasp for breath. I simply opened my eyes. My doctors were stunned. They’d expected severe damage, but I recovered completely. At first, I told no one about the experience, afraid of being dismissed, especially as a neurologist. But eventually, I shared it with David, who believed me without hesitation. That was the moment I knew I had to speak up.

Now, at 42, I’ve written a book about it and connect with others who’ve had similar experiences. It’s strange—before, death terrified me. But after that experience, the fear is gone. It hasn’t made me less of a doctor here in Dublin, but it has made me a different one.