The Day Everything Changed: What a Brain Aneurysm Taught Me About Beauty, Breath, and Living Fully

A Personal Note from Nasha

This isn’t about crystals or shells or anything in my shop—at least not directly. It’s a personal story I’ve never really shared in writing before, but it shaped the way I see life, beauty, and the preciousness of each day.

On April 1, 1990, when I was just 17, my life changed in an instant. What happened next was terrifying, mysterious, and—strangely—one of the most beautiful experiences I’ve ever had.

If you’re curious, or maybe in need of a little perspective or hope, here’s what happened…

It was April 1, 1990—April Fools’ Day. Except the joke was cosmic, and the punchline nearly killed me.

I was seventeen, a senior in high school, and I lived in San Diego. That night, I had plans to cross the border into Tijuana with some friends. Back then, that’s what you did. You threw on eyeliner, teased your hair to the ceiling, and headed south for cheap drinks and wild stories. But my boyfriend at the time didn’t want me to go—he got weirdly upset about it—so I stayed behind. I remember feeling irritated, like I was missing out. Funny how life reroutes you without asking for permission.

We ended up at a house party instead. One of those mellow spring nights with music, laughter, and people sprawled on sofas. At some point, my best friend and I went outside to jump on the trampoline. I was laughing. That’s the last moment I remember before everything flipped—literally.

The sky dropped. The earth rose. I lost all sense of gravity. One second I was bouncing, the next I couldn’t tell up from down. I collapsed and fell off the edge of the trampoline. Everything around me slowed, then softened. I remember laying on the grass and my eyes fluttering shut. My friends were yelling—“Don’t close your eyes!”—but I couldn’t keep them open.

That’s when I knew. I was dying.

But it wasn’t scary. It wasn’t even sad.

I rose above my body. At first, it was like floating gently upward, but then it became something much bigger. I could see the roof, then through the roof. Then I could see across streets, across cities. I could feel everything. I wasn’t looking at the world—I was part of it. Like I had dissolved into this warm, infinite presence. There was no language for what I felt—just overwhelming love. Not romantic love or even motherly love, but something ancient and total. Pure. Complete. It held me.

And in that moment, I didn’t want to come back. I just wanted my friends to be okay. I felt their fear, their panic, and I wanted to soothe them. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t anything.

I didn’t see a tunnel or a white light or angel wings. Just vast, beautiful stillness.

Then—bam. Something hit me. Not physically, but like a realization slamming into my spirit.

I’m not ready to die.

And with that thought, I was ripped back down into my body like I’d been caught in a tornado. Everything hurt. I started screaming. “Call 911! Call 911!” The pain was everywhere—my head, my chest, the way the air felt in my lungs like it didn’t belong there.

The EMTs arrived, but they didn’t believe me. They thought I was having a migraine, maybe anxiety. I couldn’t speak, but I remember how wrong they were. I wanted to scream: You’re missing it! I’m not okay!

In the ambulance, I faded again. I remember someone yelling “code blue.” That’s the kind of thing you think only happens to other people.

At the hospital, they ran a CAT scan. It came up inconclusive. Then they did a spinal tap—and that’s when they found the blood. I had a brain aneurysm. A flap had opened in an artery inside my head, releasing blood into my brain. That was the moment everything had shifted. That was the reason I had floated. And somehow, unbelievably, that flap had closed again. A rare, one-in-a-million thing.

They couldn’t operate without permission—I was still legally a minor—so they called my parents, who were in Los Angeles. I don’t remember much of what happened next, only that they did a craniotomy and tied off the aneurysm with titanium clips.

I was in the ICU for ten days. I came out of it changed—not just medically, but deeply. The world looked different through my eyes. The colors were sharper. People’s voices hit me in new ways. I was alive. Really alive.

But the real work was just beginning.

It took me two years to learn how to walk, talk, and write again. Two years of frustration, speech therapy, physical therapy, starting sentences over and over. Two years of knowing exactly what I wanted to say but having to fight for every word.

Still, I’ve never once wished it hadn’t happened.

Because for all the pain, that moment above the trampoline—that timeless, wordless love—stayed with me. It still does.

I don’t tell this story because I want sympathy.

I tell it because every breath is borrowed. And I plan to spend mine wisely.

That experience changed everything.

I don’t mean just physically—though re-learning how to speak and walk was its own mountain to climb. I mean in how I moved through the world from that point on. Before the aneurysm, I was just a girl trying to party in Tijuana and survive high school. Afterward, I was someone who had seen behind the curtain.

And what I saw wasn’t darkness.

It was beauty. Immense, overwhelming beauty. A kind of love that had no edges. And whether that was some part of my brain dying or something more—something spiritual, cosmic, divine—I honestly don’t care. I know what I felt. I know what I carried back with me. And no science can take that away.

So yes, I’m grateful. Every single day. Even the hard ones.

But I’m also no longer afraid of death. I don’t welcome it—not yet—but when it comes, I know it’s going to be okay. Maybe even more than okay. Maybe…beautiful.

I lived. I died. I lived again.

And I don’t take any of it for granted.

(Looking back, I’m eternally grateful for the twist of fate that kept me from crossing the border that day. My boyfriend at the time who got upset about me going to TJ, and plans shifted—but that change may have saved my life. If I’d gone to Tijuana, I would not be here to tell this story.🙌🏼)

Whether you’re here for crystals, shells, or stories, thank you for visiting this space. Life is fragile—and beautiful. I’m grateful to still be here, and to share what I love with you.