“This scene in my novel isn’t fiction—it happened to me.”
At the beginning of my novel Speak Again Bright Angel, the main characters, Sarah and Jonathan, are involved in a devastating car accident. They are struck by a drunk driver. Sarah is killed. Jonathan survives, but while unconscious, his spirit joins hers as she witnesses her own death.
Though the scene is fictionalized, it is rooted in truth.
As I describe in the book, when we came around a corner, the pickup truck was already in our lane. There was nothing Holly could do to avoid the crash.
After the impact, I opened the passenger-side door and stepped out of the car, completely in shock, repeating “Oh my God” over and over. My friend Rick, who had been driving behind us, pulled me to the side of the road before returning to help Holly.
I collapsed onto the ground, overwhelmed, writhing under the weight of what had just happened. I felt like I was going to break. And at the exact moment I thought I couldn’t endure any more, something extraordinary occurred.
I left my body.
I remember rising above myself and looking down. The pain was still there—I could feel it—but at the same time, I was no longer consumed by it. I was both within it and beyond it.
Then I connected with something immense.
It felt ancient, wise, and vast beyond comprehension. It didn’t speak in words, but it communicated clearly: this would be one of the worst times of my life—but I would endure it. I would heal.
In that moment, I became aware of a profound truth: that the suffering we experience as human beings is as old as time itself. But so too are love, healing, and strength. They are just as deep, just as enduring.
It was, without question, the worst time of my life. Holly’s death rippled outward, touching so many people, leaving behind a shared and overwhelming grief.
And yet, even in the face of that loss, the memory of that connection—of something greater—helped carry me through. It not only sustained me in my own grief, but gave me the strength to help others through theirs.
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