How My Spiritual Awakening Story Began

My spiritual awakening story didn’t start in a temple or on a mountaintop. It started in the middle of a panic attack.

Back in 2017, I was in a deeply fragile place. The kind of moment where everything feels like it’s about to fall apart. A close friend of mine—someone I trusted—guided me through a kind of meditation. It was simple, quiet, and oddly powerful. I didn’t expect much. But within minutes, everything shifted.

That shift felt like a miracle. Not the flashy, dramatic kind. More like a sudden return to something ancient. Something familiar. A deep stillness broke through the chaos in my mind. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t announce itself. It just... was.

Looking back, it felt less like something new, yet at the same time, it felt like something I had always known. A buried presence, calm and waiting beneath all the noise. Beneath all the illusion and delusion. For the first time in my life, I saw it clearly. I felt it. And I knew what it was—truth.

That moment sparked the creation of Mantrapiece. The entire vision gradually began to unfold after that experience. From touching something so real and so silent, I couldn’t ignore it. It wasn’t about having answers either. It was about finally feeling connected to something that had no questions.

This is my spiritual awakening story. It's not a tale of perfection, but one of peeling back layers of that which is false within us. Letting go of what never belonged. It’s about waking up to what’s always been here. Some might call it ego death. Others might call it spiritual awakening. For me, it was the beginning of finally understanding what it means to be deeply alive—right here, in this moment, now.

The Pinnacle of My Suffering

At the heart of my spiritual awakening story lies a moment I wouldn't wish on anyone. A breaking point. A collapse that felt final.

I was in the grip of a panic attack so intense, I truly believed I was dying. Not metaphorically. Literally. My body trembled uncontrollably. My thoughts spiraled. It felt like the last threads of my sanity were unraveling in real time.

But this didn’t come out of nowhere. It was the weight of over thirty years of depression finally crushing down. Years spent pretending to be strong. Years spent burying pain and pushing through with a fake smile. Eventually, that mask cracked—and underneath it was raw, unfiltered suffering.

Old memories flooded in. Painful ones. Unresolved conflicts. Bitterness. Shame. Every regret I’d ever tucked away came rushing to the surface. And layered on top of it all were the fears— those constant whispers that told me I’d never become anything. That I had failed. That I always would. But above everything else… was the torment of never truly feeling like I was man enough to be a man. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up without a father.

I was losing control. Not just of my emotions, but of my very sense of self. The person I thought I was—the version made from all my past experiences and future expectations—was crumbling. I could almost see it breaking apart. That identity, that shell I’d clung to, was tearing open at the seams.

And it was terrifying. Deeply terrifying. It felt like dying without physically dying. Like watching everything that made me “me” dissolve, while I stood helplessly by.

But even in that darkness, something small kept flickering. A whisper of hope. I remembered hearing people say, “The grass is greener on the other side.” I never really believed it before. But now, in the middle of what felt like my end, I started to wonder if maybe it could be true. All I had to do was hold on a little while longer.

That tiny spark—barely there—was just enough. Enough to keep breathing. Enough to not give up completely. I realized that if there was any way out of this, it wouldn’t be by resisting. It would be by going deeper. Into the fear. Into the pain. Into the very thing I had always run from.

This part of my spiritual awakening story wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t beautiful. But it was necessary. Because sometimes, the moment you think you're breaking... is actually the moment you're beginning to wake up.

Divine Intervention

In the most intense part of this torment, something unexpected happened. Something I can only describe as divine intervention.

Everything felt like it was falling apart. So I decided I needed to get out of the house. I went for a walk.

My heart was pounding wildly, completely out of rhythm. Bursts of panic rushed through my chest like waves of electricity. I could barely breathe. And then came the sharp pain—like a blade slowly pressing into my heart. My body trembled. My mind screamed. I was convinced this was the end.

But then, as I was walking past my favorite coffee shop, almost out of nowhere, a friend invited me to sit down. Almost immediately, he could tell something was off. After talking for just a brief moment, he asked if I’d be open to trying something called NLP Timeline Therapy. He said it was often used to help people who were struggling emotionally or mentally. That it could ease the pain—and maybe even bring new insight. I had never heard of it before. But in that moment, I was desperate. So I listened. I let go. And I followed every word he said.

The first thing he said was to close my eyes. Then, he asked me a simple yet strange question: “Can you see your life’s timeline?” He asked it like it was a real thing. And oddly enough, I could. I’ve always had a vivid imagination, so it wasn't hard to picture a golden thread of energy stretching from left to right. My past was on the left side, my future was on the right, and at the center was the present moment.

Once I said yes, he gently led me into my past. His voice was calm, steady—like an anchor in a storm. He asked me to find my favorite childhood memory. It didn’t come instantly, but after a few moments, there it was. Bright. Warm. Familiar. I could feel the memory as if I were there again, living it all over.

The first thing he said was to close my eyes. Then, he asked me a simple—yet strangely profound—question: “Can you see your life’s timeline?” He asked it like it was a real thing. And oddly enough… I could.

I’ve always had a vivid imagination, so it wasn’t hard to picture it: a golden thread of energy stretching from left to right. My past was on the left side. My future on the right. And right in the middle—was the present moment.

Once I said yes, he gently led me into the past. His voice was calm. Steady. Like an anchor in the middle of a storm. He asked me to find my favorite childhood memory. It didn’t come instantly—but after a few moments, it appeared. Bright. Warm. Familiar. And just like that, I could feel it again. As if I were right there, living it all over.

And at that moment something shifted.

It was subtle, but real. The fear began to loosen its grip. The ache in my chest softened. That one simple memory had started to bring me back to myself.

But he didn’t stop there. Next, he asked me to go back even further—five years before I was born. He told me to imagine my parents together, happy and in love, dreaming about the life they’d one day share.

So I did.

And what I saw brought tears to my eyes. I pictured them young and hopeful, planning their future, imagining the family they’d build. That vision—so peaceful, so pure—wrapped around me like a blanket. It was one of the most comforting images I’d ever held in my mind.

In that moment, I stopped resisting. I stopped trying to control the chaos. Instead, I opened up completely. I followed every step like a child reaching out for safety—and for the first time in a long time, I felt held.

This part of my spiritual awakening story was where pain met grace. Where my breakdown met something bigger than me. And honestly, it briefly saved me.

A Small Piece of Peace

By now, we were about seven minutes into this inner journey—one that would later become a central moment in my spiritual awakening story.

The fear began to settle. My body stopped trembling. My heart, once pounding out of rhythm, found its natural pace again. The sharp pain in my chest faded. And finally, my breath returned to me—slow, steady, and soft.

There was space now. Just enough space to breathe, to feel, and to continue.

After guiding me through the past, my friend gently shifted our focus toward the future. He asked me to imagine what life might look like ten years ahead. I pictured myself at forty-three. Maybe I had started my own business. Maybe I had found new passions, new friendships, or a completely different path. I didn’t know exactly what I saw, but it felt hopeful.

Then we moved further.

Ten more years. Now I was fifty-three. I imagined being a grandfather, retired perhaps, surrounded by family. It felt strange, yet comforting. Like I was watching a movie of a life I hadn’t lived yet—but could.

We kept going. Decade by decade. Until I reached eighty-three.

And then, he asked me to picture the end. My life coming to a close. My funeral.

At first, the idea startled me. But as I sat with the image, something surprising happened. I didn’t feel fear. I didn’t feel sadness. Instead, I felt peace.

I saw people I loved—family, friends—gathered around, celebrating not a death, but a life. They were laughing, crying, remembering. The moment wasn't tragic. It was beautiful.

And then came this feeling. One I didn’t fully understand at the time, but do now. It was the feeling of completion. Of having lived fully. Of having arrived.

In that moment, I realized something profound—something that would stay with me through every chapter of my spiritual awakening story. Death isn’t the end. It’s the final brushstroke on the canvas of life. It’s not a loss. It’s a fulfillment. A return.

Every life, no matter how long or short, eventually reaches this sacred point. And when it does, it isn’t about what was left behind. It’s about what was experienced, felt, and understood along the way.

And that realization? That was my first real taste of peace.

Coming Back to Reality

The next phase of my spiritual awakening story felt like something out of a dream—only more real than anything I’d ever known.

After imagining my death and funeral, my friend gently guided me further. He asked me to see my body rising—slowly, effortlessly—into the sky. As I ascended, the golden line of my life’s timeline grew smaller beneath me. Earth itself began to shrink in the distance.

Eventually, I left the atmosphere behind. I drifted into space. Quiet. Vast. Still.

And I didn’t stop there.

I rose higher until even the Earth became just a speck in the blackness. The silence was overwhelming, but not in a frightening way. It was peaceful. Sacred, even. A place untouched by time, thought, or fear.

Then came something truly surreal.

He instructed me to imagine the top of my head gently opening, like a flower blooming in slow motion. From that open space, a glowing white light emerged. Bright. Pure. Alive.

I sat in silence with that image—this radiant light floating just above me, pulsing softly in the darkness. For a brief moment, I felt as if I had touched something divine. Something completely beyond the mind. Beyond suffering. Beyond me.

And then, it was time to return.

He told me to slowly bring the light back down—letting it re-enter through the top of my head. I imagined my head gently closing, sealing that light inside. Then I began my descent. Back through space. Back through the sky. Down to Earth. Down to the room where I was sitting.

As I returned to myself, something in me had changed.

I sat in silence for a moment, eyes still closed, realizing I hadn’t died. I was still here. Alive. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt whole.

There was no fear. No pain. Just a deep, undeniable sense of peace.

So I took a breath. A real one. Full and steady. And when I finally opened my eyes… I knew something inside me had shifted for good.

This was no longer just a meditation. It was a rebirth. A return. The beginning of the rest of my spiritual awakening story.

Awakening to My True Nature

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t returning to the same world I had left behind.

In that moment, I was flooded with an overwhelming sense of awe—an indescribable shock that seemed to ripple through every part of me. It was as if my entire life had just flashed before me, not like a memory, but like a dream I had once read in a distant book. Familiar, yet unreal.

Everything I had known felt like a story—an imagined tale. And the world around me, the room I was sitting in, the objects before me… none of it felt “out there” anymore. Instead, it all seemed to be arising from within me.

And yet, at the same time, there was an immense, almost infinite distance between me and the world. It was as if my consciousness had separated from the physical realm. I could feel it—this space. I was on one side of existence, and the entire universe was on the other.

It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. A complete dislocation of identity. As if I had never truly been a part of the world. Instead, I had only ever been aware of it—watching, observing, from somewhere far beyond its edges.

I found myself in a place that had no name. No form. No location. A place beyond time and beyond space. And from there, I could faintly see the outer rim of the universe, as if I were on the outside looking in. And somehow, I knew… I had always been here.

That realization shattered everything I thought I knew about myself.

In that instant, I saw the truth: I was never separate from the universe. I am the universe. I always have been. I had just forgotten.

Somewhere along the way—perhaps in early childhood, or even before—I had unknowingly put that truth aside. I had explored the idea that maybe I was something else. Something smaller. Something that could be replaced by objects, identities, goals, or beliefs.

But I was wrong.

There is nothing more valuable than this existence. Nothing more profound than simply being. And nothing more sacred than the recognition of what I truly am.

That feeling I mentioned earlier—the one that had long been buried under the noise of life—had finally risen. And this time, I didn’t just feel it. I understood it. I knew it.

There is nothing outside of what I am. There is no separation. No other. Just this... total, silent, infinite awareness.

This was the moment I awakened to my true nature.

And that realization became the cornerstone of everything that would follow—every thought, every breath, every intention. It became the truth that would guide me from that day forward.

The Death of an Illusion, The Death of My Delusion

As I sat there, eyes open and heart wide, something extraordinary became clear.

I had always been there. Through every memory of my past, through every imagined vision of my future—I was present. Always. There wasn’t a single moment in my life that I hadn’t witnessed for myself.

And yet… I was not the story I had been living.

I could see it now—my entire life, playing out like a film in the mind. A story. A vivid one, yes, but a story nonetheless. And with that clarity came a question that hit me like lightning:

“How can I be my life’s story… if I am the one aware of it?”

The answer was so simple it was almost laughable. Obvious, even.

I’m not the story. I’m not the character in the story—not even the one named “Noah.” I’m not a thought, not an idea, not an identity. I’m the one aware of all of it.

And that awareness? That presence? It comes before everything. It gives rise to everything. It is the source from which all things appear.

In that moment, I realized something profound: I didn’t know what I was. But I knew, without a doubt, what I was not.

I was no longer trapped behind the illusion of being a person who had to prove himself, accumulate success, or protect a fragile reputation just to survive. That illusion had died.

And with it, all fear vanished.

There was no more dread about being cast out. No panic about being misunderstood. No anxiety about ending up alone or broken or lost. Those fears, which had once ruled my life, dissolved. As if they had never existed at all.

I was free.

Free to be no one in particular. Free to be everything. Free to just be—without condition, without pressure, without limitation.

It felt like I had been given a second life. A rebirth. I was a grown man with the open awareness of a newborn, and the mind of someone who had studied life through every angle—and finally let it all go.

And I knew… my life was about to get really, really good.

Then, the joke landed. The cosmic punchline hit me right in the heart—and I laughed.

The tears came next. Not out of sadness, but from pure joy. Tears that washed through my entire body, releasing years—decades—of pain, tension, and silent suffering. It felt like every cell was being cleansed. And for the first time ever, crying felt good.

No—incredible.

I laughed. I cried. I laughed again. I had finally found what I had been unknowingly searching for my entire life.

And the most mind-shattering part of it all? I was it.

I had always been it.

The freedom I was chasing, the peace I was longing for, the truth I was desperate to find—it was me. It had always been me. I just didn’t remember.

Now I do.

And to be completely honest with you… if I had to take a not-so-wild guess, I’d say that every single person—deep down—wants the same thing. To be free of all the ideas. To remember who and what they truly are. To wake up and re-realize their own infinite, eternal nature.

They just don’t know it yet.

But they will.

I Am All That Is

In the days and weeks that followed this awakening, I walked through the world differently—like a newborn seeing everything for the first time.

Colors were brighter. Sounds were richer. Silence was deeper. Even the space between things seemed charged with energy and meaning. I had touched the infinite… and now, I saw it everywhere.

Nothing had changed. Yet everything had.

I realized that the divine wasn’t something far away. It wasn’t hidden in mountaintops or locked in scriptures. It was here. Right here. In every breath. In every face. In every grain of sand. In every moment.

And not just around me—but as me.

I am not just in the world. I am the world. I am the sky. I am the wind. I am the space between the stars. I am the stars. I am the awareness that holds it all.

I am all that is.

And so are you.

You’ve just forgotten. Just like I did. But the beautiful thing about forgetting… is remembering.

This is not the end of my spiritual awakening story. It’s the beginning. Because awakening—or as many spiritual seekers would say, enlightenment—is not a destination. It’s a return. A coming home. And each day, I return a little more.

To silence. To presence. To truth. To love. To the unshakable knowing that I am not separate from anything.

And neither are you.

So if you’re reading this and you’re struggling… if you’re lost or hurting… this is your sign. You are not broken. You are not alone. You are not too late. You are not too far gone.

You are the light you’ve been searching for.

And I promise you…

One day, you’ll remember too.