My Near-Death Experience at Langley Air Force Base

At 20, I was serving in the U.S. Air Force at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. After injuring both knees during Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) training, I had transitioned toward Public Affairs journalism while going through the medical-retirement process. On the morning of April 1, 2008, my supervisor found me unconscious in my dorm room after I did not report on time.

I was taken to the Langley Air Force Base hospital, where initial tests found no clear cause. I remember a nurse adjusting an IV, leaving the room, alarms sounding, and seeing the monitor go flat. I later saw severe bruising along my left arm. I remember being told that staff documented an air embolism connected with the IV; that remains my recollection of what I was told.

My documented history includes U.S. Air Force service, cardiac arrest on April 1, 2008, at age 20 while stationed at Langley Air Force Base, and medical retirement later that year. I do not claim a specific period of clinical death. I also remember finding gaps in records I later reviewed, but I share that only as my recollection, not as proof that anything was removed.

This part is what I remember, in my own words. I felt a calm presence to my left, and then I was traveling upward through light. I found myself in a vivid garden, more alive than anything I had seen. A little boy with curly blond hair was there, and I recognized him as me. A man in a robe stood with us, and I understood him to be Jesus: short brown hair, green eyes, and a grin, not the figure from the typical painting. The message I carried away was simple, to spread light, love, laughter, and joy. Then I was told I had to go back, and I agreed without argument.

I remember waking up in a different hospital off base, in Hampton, Virginia, with civilian staff around me. Physically I felt normal. I called a friend, ate at Chick-fil-A, and went up to Washington, D.C. for a couple of days. What followed was harder to describe: confusion, a sense that my identity had been disrupted, and then the medical retirement process moving ahead.

For about twelve years, I kept this mostly to myself. I feared being judged or misunderstood, and I worried about possible consequences in a military and professional culture where this is not an easy thing to say out loud. So I stayed quiet and carried it privately.

Connection with other veterans helped me begin to speak. In October 2020, I attended a Wounded Warrior Project Project Odyssey retreat, which opened the door to what I had carried privately. Learning about the near-death experience community, including IANDS, gave me language, context, and the courage to share.

Today, I carry a simple, practical message: find joy, spread laughter, live with purpose, and bring more love into the world. That is what Chase the Light means to me. It is an invitation, not a doctrine, medical treatment, or substitute for qualified care.