I am at that age where I spend periodic moments thinking about life and death. I started contemplating my own mortality after my mother died suddenly of a stroke in 1994. She was only 61, and I was 27. She died during a time in my life when I was transitioning from being religious to realising that atheism was making sense to me.
As I was jettisoning the old but not quite into the new, I was open and seeking answers. Perhaps because I wasn’t solidly in one belief system or another, I was like a rudderless ship on the ocean: floating directionless, impressionable and malleable. It was simultaneously disconcerting and freeing.
Fortunately for me, my parents raised me to question everything—including them. I was raised a Christian (my father was Catholic, and my mother an Episcopalian). Favouring the latter over the former, I went to parochial school and served as an acolyte in my church. I was also seriously considering attending seminary school to become an Episcopalian priest. But something happened that gave me great pause. And it wasn’t some minor aspect of Christianity, either.
All thinking adults at some point ask themselves that difficult question: “What will happen to me when I die?” If you are religious, more than likely, your beliefs answered this question before you even posed it. Christianity takes a solid position on this: “He who so believeth in me shall have everlasting life.” And while I can only speak for those who are Catholic or Episcopalian, the consequence of not believing is also very clear: fire and brimstone.
Upon death, non-believers will be damned to hell for all eternity, while those who question will be stuck in purgatory. This was far too upsetting for me to remain a Christian, so I walked away from the church. At 13 years old, I found myself at the first of three existential crossroads while I searched for a philosophy that resonated better with my beliefs about humanity.
I did as all wandering souls do. I spent hours pondering. I read what I could find in the library. I asked people about their beliefs and why they believed what they believed. In most cases, I learned that people had never really questioned what they were raised to believe, which felt like a non-answer to me.
I spent time in a Jewish temple, a mosque and a Buddhist temple. I considered Judaism but quickly surmised this was more of the same, just less guilt. In my early 20s, I decided to become a Buddhist (Vajrayāna). I was really attracted to the ideas of detachment and impermanence, that suffering is universal and that I could achieve enlightenment through the process of Karma. Whether it took me one lifetime or many, I was down with the idea of learning from my actions, behaviours and thoughts with the hope of one day getting it right.
After about five years, my love for Buddhism began to wane. Ultimately what drove me away wasn’t the message but the lack of inclusivity. At least in the U.S., my experience was that most sects of Buddhism attracted upper-middle-class, majority white, very educated people. I realised what I was seeking was a combination of Christianity's inclusiveness with Buddhism's four noble truths.
Believing that ultimately organised religion had little to offer me, I started looking to nature for answers. By the time I was 27, I was resigning myself to believing that we do as we’re told other life forms do: we live, we die, we decompose, and then we become one with the earth. I actually took great comfort in believing this, as it meant that in death, I could become part of something bigger than I was in life. I was fine believing this until I started having premonitions, which don’t jibe too well with agnosticism or atheism.
My Umbilical Cord is Ripping! I Have to Call My Mother!
I was in the minimalist stage of my life, owning very little: 18 boxes of books, my clothes, my cat Milo and a computer. I had very few pieces of furniture: a bed barely big enough for Milo and me, a small nightstand with a touch-tone phone and an analogue clock radio, along with a wooden rolltop desk and chair with caster wheels that were hand-me-downs from my godmother. I intended to buy bookshelves one day.
I’ve had phases in my life where I’ve had premonitions, usually when I was in a state of spiritual flux. I’m about to share a series of them that didn’t make complete sense at the time, but now with 28 years of life experience combined with the plandemic and subsequent bioweapon looming over us, they make better sense. I believe I’m also open to exploring what happened then because I am once again in transition: this time from atheism to being open spiritually.
On the 27th of May, June and July in 1994, I had a recurring dream that always started and ended the same way. In my dream I’m on my bed, reading a book. Always on page nine when the dream starts, I have the sense my father is dying. I remove the book from my lap and say calmly to Milo, “My father is dying.” I don’t wake up, however, after telling him this. Instead, I am transported (sans Milo) to my parents’ 150-year-old stone house in the South of France.
Before my first dream-state visitation, for various reasons, after my parents retired to France when I was 18, I hadn’t been to visit. Yet, I knew every square inch of their home, as though I’d been there hundreds of times before.
I arrived to see my parents on the sitting room sofa. I walked around their house, always aware of their presence, but they were unaware of mine. I checked out all the rooms and ended up in the library on the second floor, which overlooked the sitting room.
My parents were deep in a discussion, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying until my father said, “Sometimes I feel like I need to put my head in the freezer. Nothing can cool me down some days.”
My mother said to him, “Just let it happen. Don’t fight it.”
To which my father responded, “Not this month, in August.” And then I’m awake. On all three occasions I had this dream, once awake, I checked the clock. It always read the same time: 1:57 am. In each instance, I sat up and held Milo close. I wasn’t scared, but I felt the need to get lost in Milo’s purring while I dialled the house in France (where it was now 7:58 am), and each time I asked my mother if my father was okay.
“Yes, he’s still in Indonesia.” After my parents retired, my father took a consulting job with the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP). A six-month assignment turned into two years. “He is supposed to be home in August. I hope this job ends soon. I miss him. Don’t worry, Sarah. Your father is fine.”
Each time I called my mother about these dreams/premonitions, I described them in detail. She admitted that it was odd and concerning, and each time she assured me he was fine.
When the 27th of August came and went with no dream, I forced myself to wake up at 1:57 to call my mother to announce the good news. “Awww, that’s a huge relief, Sarah. Go to sleep and feel confident your father is fine. I love you.”
It was after midnight Saturday morning, 28, August 1994. I was at my desk on the computer, writing, and sitting on the chair with caster wheels. For reasons I hadn’t known then, I stopped writing to glance at the clock radio: 1:56 am. No sooner did I return my attention to the computer when something or someone yanked me away from the desk with great force.
The bedroom was small, so I could only go but so far. The chair bounced off the bed, and suddenly I was head over feet. I bounced off the bed and landed on the floor. Then I began screaming in agony. “Oh My God! My umbilical cord is ripping! I have to call my mother!”
I remained on the floor for three minutes; I was cold and clammy. I reached for the phone and called my parents’ number in France. It rang and rang and rang. I knew what had happened. In my heart of hearts, I knew my mother was gone.
Coming from four different places, yet within just an hour of each other’s flights, my brothers, father and I arrived in Nice, France two days later for her funeral. We wanted to see our mother, so we crammed into my parents’ small car and drove to the morgue. Our mother’s appearance was shocking. She’d had a large bruise from above her left eyebrow to her jawline.
The coroner explained that she’d had a stroke. He concluded she was likely overcome by the uncontrollable urge to vomit, causing her to run to the bathroom and that she’d fallen, hitting her head on the ceramic toilet. He deduced from her position that she’d died instantly without suffering.
I felt this deduction explained the force with which I was pulled from my desk, but I didn’t think much beyond that. We each said our goodbyes and kissed her. My French was decent enough to understand the coroner’s implication that our mother had been pronounced dead at 9:00 am. I politely interrupted to explain that it was actually 8:00 am local time, not 9:00. It turned out I wasn’t the only one who knew this to be true.
My middle brother and his wife had been on vacation in California when our mother died, which is three hours behind New York and nine hours behind France. At 11:00 pm, he’d had a dream that he was standing next to a boulder in the playground of the parochial school I once attended.
From hot and sunny to flooding rains in an instant, my brother knew what to do. He was (now deceased as of May 2023) a black belt in multiple forms of kung-fu, so he steadied himself in what’s known as a horse stance (arms, legs and torso mimic being on a horse) to ride out the flood. Throughout this flash flood, he said that the only thing that went through his mind was that our mother’s water had just broken and that she was being reborn.
During his dream, he was convulsing. His wife had noted the time when the convulsions started and ended—exactly three minutes (11:00 pm to 11:03 local California time). She tried several times while he was convulsing to jar him awake without success. When he was done convulsing, she said it took no effort to wake him up. Once awake and alert, his first and only words were, “My mother’s gone.”
At three minutes after two in the morning in upstate NY, my oldest brother—who was in the U.S. Army doing training exercises—also had a premonition. He recalled falling asleep in a makeshift foxhole. In a dream-like state, he described seeing a woman (without a recognizable face) in a flowing white dress who came to him and said that his mother had just passed on to a better place and that she would continue to watch over him. A coffin appeared, and the woman climbed in and began floating away until she was out of sight. He was gently moved from his dream state to being wide awake. He took note of the time: 2:06 am.
My father didn’t know what to make of the fact that he’d felt nothing at the time of our mother’s passing. It was clear from our accounts that I was with her as the stroke was coming on, my middle brother as she was dying (we deduced she must have suffered some, given how long his convulsions lasted), and my oldest brother as she was on her way someplace else.
My brothers shared that they, too, had been questioning their own philosophical beliefs and that no one belief system held sway over them.
Based on our experiences, my father got the coroner to add a notation on her death certificate that said our mother had died at 8:00 am, although the legal time of death was listed as 9:00 am local time (because, you know, science is always correct). Later that day, at our parents’ home, my brothers and I, completely exhausted, passed out in various rooms. I took my father’s bedroom on the third floor.
On my right side, drifting into sleep, I felt a soft and familiar hand on my left shoulder. I attempted to turn and look, but my mother’s hand prevented me. “Sarah, don’t turn; this is not how I want you to remember me. I need you to know how proud of you I am. You’re the most grounded of my three children. You are sometimes too practical for your own good. Don’t try to force outcomes. Don’t always think your way out of situations. I’d love to see you feeling your way through this life. Let yourself be guided through your experiences. You will marry a man who will match your ability to love, feel and think. You will choose to remain childless, and when it’s time for you both to transition, it will be together. I will always be here with you. I love you.” During this time, I was completely immobilised. I could move my eyes, but I had no control over the rest of my body. No sooner did I feel her drift away, did I regain full use of my body.
After I woke up, my father and I started cleaning out my mother’s wardrobe, so I could take some of her possessions. I told him about the dreams I’d had before my mother passed on. He said that my premonitions were accurate, with one exception. In April (a month before they began), my mother told my father (over the phone) that her head was frequently hot and that she wanted to put it in the freezer. He asked her to hold on until August when his contract with UNDP ended, and he’d be home for good. He was scheduled to return home on 31, August 1994, three days after she died. She told him she was ready to go and that she needed to stop fighting it.
For 24 years following my mother’s passing, I considered myself a “die-hard” atheist, during which my premonitions stopped. As the plandemic and subsequent bioweapon have brought things into focus, I have again found myself re-awakening. I’m not prepared to label it just yet because, like my previous awakenings, it took me a while to reach the other end. However, I will say the premonitions have returned. I am following my mother and husband’s advice and am feeling my way through it.
Edited on September 4, 2025.
I wrote this for New Dawn Magazine in February 2023. New Dawn Magazine is an Australian-based publication that’s been in circulation since 1991. (Hence the Australian forms of words.)
It describes itself as a journal of “alternative news, ancient wisdom, new science, and reality.” The magazine is known for covering topics outside of the mainstream, often exploring the intersection of history, spirituality, philosophy, and science with a focus on ideas that challenge conventional thinking.
Overall, New Dawn Magazine appeals to readers interested in questioning orthodox views, seeking hidden knowledge, or exploring holistic and alternative approaches to science, history, and culture.
August 28, 2025 marked the 31st anniversary of my mother’s passing. As stated in the essay, I was at a spiritual crossroads at the time of her death. At the start of the plandemic, I began waking up spiritually again, following nearly three decades of agnosticism/atheism.
I can’t say I have reached any decisions about the world around me such that I can place myself in any one spiritual or religious camp. But I do know this: as I had done when I was transitioning from Buddhism to atheism, I left one to the other with many premonitions. I had zero premonitions in the time I was agnostic and now that I am feeling my way through spirituality again, my premonitions have returned. More often than not, they come to fruition. I was scared when they first began to reappear, not no longer. I embrace them, even when they reveal something unpleasant.
For years I didn’t know what to make of my brothers’ and my premonitions around the moments my mother was dying and once she died. Today, I fully believe her three children were with her in her final moments.
And what a blessing that was for each of us. She wasn’t alone and she reminded us she is with us always.