The Medicine of a Past Life

It didn’t begin as a memory.

It began as a shiver

the kind that feels like an ancestor brushing past you in a dark room.

This year around my birthday, the veil didn’t just thin.

It tore open.

A truth slid through the cracks of my consciousness.

Not new information

just newly remembered.

My mother has always told the same story:

“You were born purple.

The cord was around your neck.

You weren’t breathing.

They had to turn you upside down and smack your back to bring you in.”

I’ve heard this story hundreds of times.

But this year, the words re-entered me differently,

echoing from somewhere deeper.

As if they were unlocking something old.

As if the story wasn’t hers at all.

As if it was mine.

And then the realisation slid over me:

I didn’t just struggle for breath at birth.

I was remembering the way I died.

A Death Carried Across Lifetimes

I don’t see my past life death in pictures.

I feel it in sensations:

A sudden tightening around the throat.

A violent collapse of breath.

The world tilts as dizziness rises.

A wave of fear I never released floods back.

A throat closing.

A final, unfinished inhale.

Not a slow passing.

A cutting off.

A silencing.

A strangulation of voice, breath, truth and life force,

the kind of ending that scorches itself into the soul field.

I didn’t choose to leave.

I was taken.

And so I re-entered this life exactly as I left the last one

purple, breathless, suspended between worlds.

The Child Who Remembered Before She Knew

As a child, death followed me like a second shadow.

I didn’t just fear death.

I felt death

close, familiar, too recent.

I would cry hysterically, howling at the thought of dying.

And I hid these breakdowns as if I were guarding a memory too dangerous to speak,

not because I was ashamed,

but because I didn’t trust anyone to hold it.

But my nervous system was replaying something

my mind was too young to understand,

a trauma that didn’t belong to this lifetime.

The memory was so real

I couldn’t tell the difference between fear and remembrance.

The Voice That Threatened People

Life, with its unnerving precision, placed me in a family where my voice was both unwelcome and dangerous.

Every time I spoke truth, someone was triggered.

Every revelation, every intuitive knowing, every uncomfortable honesty.

Suddenly, I was the problem.

The villain.

The threat.

The one to blame.

Once, I was even called a “white witch.”

It didn’t dawn on me then.

But I had lived a lifetime where speaking truth carried consequences.

Where my voice cost me safety.

Where silence was imposed, not chosen.

And so this incarnation placed me right back on that doorway

not as punishment,

but as reclamation.

I came here to heal the throat through the fire of being silenced again.

And as I approach my Uranus Opposition in 2027,

I can feel my body preparing

preparing my voice.

When that electric energy rises, sending shockwaves through my system,

the current stirs my kundalini awake.

It allows the animus ‘the masculine within women’ to awaken,

a power that ignites through the throat.

The Body That Remembered Too Well

Eventually the imprint took physical form:

Hashimoto’s

an autoimmune attack on the thyroid, my throat’s inner temple.

It was as if the past-life wound had found a new language:

My voice shaking.

My breath shortening.

My energy collapsing.

My throat holding centuries of memories.

I didn’t understand it then.

But now I see it clearly:

My past-life ending became the architecture of my healing in this one.

The Circle That Both Terrifies and Frees Me

And this remembrance doesn’t only rise in solitude.

It comes alive in circle.

Every time I sit in a group field

my throat tightens

the same old trembling at the base of my voice,

the instinct that whispers you’re not safe to be seen.

My chest contracts.

My breath shortens.

My voice feels like it’s standing at the edge of an old execution.

The body remembers before the mind does.

But then

something shifts.

Something eternal.

Something liberating.

Because each time I sit in circle,

I don’t collapse.

I don’t disappear.

I don’t lose my breath.

Instead, I open.

I soften.

I rise.

The very space that once triggered my deepest fear

now becomes the place my soul learns freedom.

Even when it feels destabilising,

being held by sisters who understand

grounds me, sets me free.

Every circle is a micro‑rebirth

a rehearsal of the life where my voice was taken,

rewired into a life where my voice return.

And Then There’s the Most Uncanny Part…

Out of every healing path I could have chosen

every direction, every calling, every modality.

I became a rebirthing breathworker.

(Alongside other work: subconscious exploration, Neuroscience, counselling, astrology, numerology and Human Design.)

The very thing that almost cost me my life.

The very thing that ended my last one.

The very portal through which I re-entered this world.

The medicine my soul feared

and the medicine my soul needed.

Sometimes I sit in ceremony, guiding someone through their breath,

watching them unravel the moment their spirit first struggled to be here…

And something inside me whispers:

“You’re guiding them through what you once couldn’t navigate.

You’re helping them reclaim their breath

because no one was there to help you reclaim yours.”

It feels uncanny.

Destined.

Hauntingly symmetrical.

I teach rebirthing

because my soul has lived both sides of the breath

the losing of it

and the reclaiming of it.

I didn’t choose breathwork by chance.

Breathwork remembered me.

When my nervous system was shattered,

it was Breathwork that helped me find my feet.

It called me back

long before I had a name.

The Remembrance

When I look at the pieces now, they form a pattern too precise to ignore:

A death by breath loss.

A birth with the cord choking me.

A childhood full of death panic.

A lifetime of being silenced.

A throat dis-ease.

And now

a woman who guides others through the very portal that shaped her soul.

This isn’t a story.

It’s a loop closing.

This is the lifetime where I finish the breath I never got to take.

Where I speak the words I never got to say.

Where I guide others through the death and rebirth

that once swallowed me.

This time,

I breathe on my own terms.

This time,

I speak without fear.

This time,

I choose life.

And this time,

I remember.

🖤

Lamisha