Still Here: A Near-Death Experience That Changed Everything

 In 2013, one ordinary day nearly became my last — and what happened next reshaped how I see life, purpose, and survival. 

 One ordinary day.
 One unthinkable moment.
 And the thin line between being here… and not.

In this episode, I share the story of a near-death experience that changed everything — the choices, the realizations, and the reasons I’m still here to talk about it.

If you’ve ever wondered how fragile life really is… this one’s for you.

🎙 How Did We Get Here? — Episode 2: Still Here
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How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Transcript

Every life has turning points.
This is where we talk about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Welcome to How Did We Get Here. I’m Jim Richmond. Let’s begin.

It was just supposed to be a test — nothing life-changing, nothing dramatic. Just a shot at something new: a school bus license. Steady work, steady hours, a different kind of peace.

But the test didn’t go as planned. Failed it. Walked back to the car — disappointed, embarrassed, quiet. Drove home, broke the news. She took it better than expected, but she always did.

Called the school. They were kind. Said, “Come grab some new study materials. We’ll hold your spot.” Got back in the car, still feeling like there had to be something to prove.

And then — a sharp pain right in the center, like being punched from the inside. Coughed, and it faded. A few minutes later, it came back — stronger, heavier, like someone sitting on my chest twisting a knife.

Still miles out. Nowhere to stop, nowhere to run. Then it was there — a plain little sign: Urgent Care. Swerved into the lot, threw the car in park, stumbled through the doors, clutching my chest like it might explode.

Rushed to the back — hands on my arms, voices in a blur. Aspirin. Nitro. Everything spinning.
 “Hey bud, stay with me.”

Yeah… that was me.

I wasn’t at war. I wasn’t on duty. Wasn’t chasing suspects or running into burning buildings. I was running an errand, thinking about second chances, and trying to be useful again.

Then, just like that… I almost wasn’t here anymore.

Funny how life works — just when you think things are finally turning around, you find out how fast it can all be taken away.

Before that day in 2013, life had finally started to make sense again. I’d been through the wringer — military service, law enforcement, two divorces, one relationship I thought would last… that didn’t.

There were moments I thought I’d never find real peace — not the kind that’s quiet, but the kind that’s safe.

Then I met her — the woman who would become my wife. She wasn’t loud about it. She didn’t try to fix me. She just saw me. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could stop running.

We got married in 2011. We weren’t young, but we were real — and that was enough. She picked up the slack when I needed time to figure things out, took on more than she should have had to… without ever throwing it in my face.

I’d been trying to earn my CDL not because it was some big dream, but because it felt simple, safe, structured. After everything I’d seen and done, a school bus felt like peace on wheels.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine. And it felt like the start of something better. For the first time in a long time, I was finally breathing easy.

The pain hit fast — sharp, sudden, right in the chest. And my first thought was simple: No… this can’t be happening. Not to me.

Maybe it was heartburn. Maybe stress. I tried to play it off. Then it faded — relief rushing in like air to a drowning man. I told myself it was nothing. Just a fluke. Keep moving.

But a few minutes later, it came back. And this time, my gut told me the truth my brain didn’t want to hear: I was in trouble.

My mind went foggy. No dramatic thoughts. No movie monologues. Just instinct. Survival.
 I needed help — and I needed it fast.

I was still miles away from anywhere… then I saw it. An urgent care sign out of nowhere. Right when I needed it most. Destiny? Luck? I don’t know.

But I pulled in, threw the car in park, and literally stumbled through the door like I was trying to outrun death.

Everything was spinning. I remember aspirin. Nitro tablets. Hands on me. Rushed voices I couldn’t place. The crushing weight in my chest getting heavier with every second.

Then the ER — bright lights, blurred faces, breathing sharp, final.
 “Stay with me.”

That’s the last thing I remember. Everything after that went black.

When I came to, it was after the second shock. They lost me twice. Flatlined… twice.

I didn’t see a light. Didn’t float above the room. Didn’t hear angels or whispers or final goodbyes. What I saw was nothing. Not dark — but black. Blacker than anything I could ever describe.

But the strangest thing? I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t panicking. I felt peace. A kind of peace I don’t think this world even knows how to give. Heavy. Still. Complete.

It took me years to even say that out loud. To tell this story without choking up. Even now, when I tell it, it gives me chills.

Because when I woke up in that hospital bed — wires on my chest, pain in every breath — I knew I hadn’t just been close. I’d been gone. And I came back… different.

Not with a vision. Not with a mission. Just a stillness that stayed with me.

My wife was there — of course she was. That look on her face… I’ll never forget it. She didn’t need to speak. I could feel it all — the fear, the strength, the love.

She hadn’t signed up for this, but she stayed anyway. And that told me everything.

And me? I didn’t feel lucky. I felt… cracked open. Like the old version of me didn’t survive that table. Because he didn’t.

After something like that, you don’t just go back to normal. You can’t.
 You can try — but something inside you always stays awake.

I walked out of that hospital slower than I walked in. Different gait. Different breath. Different eyes. But not broken. Not anymore.

I spent so many years chasing things — titles, relationships — trying to prove I was useful, trying to matter.

And here I was, fresh off the table… no job title, no grand plan… just alive.

That used to scare me — not having a roadmap, not having control. But now? Being here — still here — was enough.

I didn’t have to race the clock anymore. Didn’t have to fight every fight. Didn’t have to carry the weight of every failure like a badge.

I had a wife who loved me, a life that was still mine, and breath in my lungs that I didn’t earn… but was damn sure going to use.

So I stopped chasing. Stopped proving. And I started showing up.

That was the turn — quiet, simple, permanent.

If you’re still listening, maybe you’ve felt some of what I felt.
 Maybe not the same story — but the same silence. The same ache. The same question: Am I going to make it?

I don’t have all the answers. Hell, most days I’m still trying to figure it all out. But I’ll tell you this — if you’re breathing, you’ve got a shot.

Not at perfection. Not at erasing the past. But at building something real from right here. Right now.

You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to have a plan. You just have to stay in the fight — even if all you can do today is breathe.

That’s enough.

Because someone out there needs to know what’s possible — to fall apart, to break, to flatline… and still come back.

Maybe that someone is you.

I don’t know why I’m still here. But I am. And so are you.

So let’s not waste it.

This is How Did We Get Here — a podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

I’m Jim Richmond.
 And I’m still here for a reason.
 Maybe you are too.