I wasn’t expecting to be taken back to my Little Grandma Rose’s home. Then again, sometimes it rises up that way. It’s a familiar experience in meditation for me—not always everything at once, but in vivid parts, as if I’m walking through memory by feeling. I could likely remember the whole scene if I tried. My recall of childhood has always been vivid, almost uncanny. Sometimes I wonder if everyone remembers their early years so clearly—or if this clarity is part of what keeps pulling me back. Her house appeared in my mind, down to the fine details—until I found myself facing the painting that always hung on the wall just after walking in. It was a portrait of her mother, Martha. A woman I never met. A woman I rarely think about. And yet there she was, as if waiting. As if watching.

This wasn’t the first time meditation opened unexpected doors. Years ago, I followed a guided past-life regression and emerged shaken, surprised, and—strangely—deeply seen. What I saw then led me to believe I may have once been Esther—my paternal great-grandmother, the mother of my Dad’s mom. The idea didn’t come from wishful thinking. If anything, I was shocked. Esther died young, only 47, and I never met her. Not to be confused with Little Grandma Rose—Esther’s daughter was my Dad’s mom, a woman I had a complicated relationship with throughout my life. She was a complex woman, sometimes difficult, sometimes heartbreaking. I once bailed her out of jail for a DUI. That’s not a story you expect to tell about your grandma.

So to be shown a vision of her mother, of myself as her mother, stirred something primal. It didn’t feel glamorous. It felt true. In that meditation, I saw Esther’s world—her home, her room, the shape of her bed. I saw myself attend a church ceremony in a building that didn’t match the faith I knew from childhood. The details were unlike anything I’d imagined, and still, I recognized it.

The second time I tried the regression, more images came, reinforcing my belief that I had somehow touched the edges of Esther’s life. But it was the third time that unraveled my certainty. In that session, I was wearing military boots. I looked down and saw the hands of a Black man—dusty, worn, masculine. Not Esther. Not even female. And yet the timeline felt the same.

I was left with more questions than answers.

Is it possible our souls occupy more than one body across time? Could we be living parallel lives—or remnants of one another’s lives—interwoven through lineage or energy? Concepts like bilocation, soul fragmentation, or simultaneous incarnations offer spiritual frameworks for this. They might sound far-fetched, but what if they’re just languages for something we haven’t yet learned to measure?

The very first vision I ever had during that regression was of a man at a table, hunched over. Alone. Dead. I didn’t understand what I was seeing at the time, but later I recalled that my Great Grandpa Sam—who had been married to Esther—had passed away alone after years of drinking and grieving. Because he was present in my own lifetime for only a short while, I thought perhaps it was him. But then I began to wonder—was I seeing him, or was I seeing through someone else’s eyes? Possibly even Esther’s? I was told she passed when she was quite young, and Sam never really recovered from the loss. I’ve heard stories of people seeing loved ones before they die—visions, presence, something unexplainable. I’ve witnessed it in my time caring for elders, and even with my own Little Grandma Rose. Maybe what I saw wasn’t Sam alone, but Sam being met. Perhaps Esther came back for him. It may sound wild, but to me, it’s a truth wrapped in experience. Not everything I see is surface level, and not everything needs to be explained. The mind weaves meaning where the soul stirs memory—and I can’t always tell where one ends and the other begins.

What came next added another layer of complexity. Maybe I wasn’t just Sam. Maybe I wasn’t just Esther. Maybe these were fragments of memory and sensation tied not to individual lives, but to something much older—a consciousness shared, stretched, or echoed across lifetimes. The visions challenged the idea of linear time and fixed identity. I even began to wonder: was I seeing Sam through Esther’s eyes? Or was I Esther, returning to Sam in spirit?

None of these visions have presented themselves as fact. They don’t need to. They’ve opened a path of curiosity, and more than that, reverence. If I was Esther, then I was a woman whose daughter grew into someone I struggled with. If I was Sam, I was a man who died alone, after losing love. If I was neither—just a receiver of these memories—then there’s still value in what they’ve shown me.

I no longer do guided past-life meditations. In fact, the regressions I’ve shared here are literally all I have ever done. Sometimes you need to sit with the information and digest it for yourself. My practice has grown into something more—a consistent, mindful presence that anchors me day and night, and if I’m lucky, in the space between. Meditation is where truth is found. It takes time to learn how to listen in that space, and even longer to master, but the entire process is worth it—especially if you desire the deepest of truths. There is positive psychology that supports this truth, and for me, the journey has only been amplified by these experiences—loving, eye-opening, and expansive.

Once again, I find myself standing across the timeline, face-to-face with Martha—my maternal great-grandmother, the mother of my beloved Little Grandma Rose. A constant image in my childhood, captured in that single painting. I know almost nothing about her. But perhaps it’s time to learn. Maybe there’s a message waiting—not just about who she was, but about what I carry from her, and how her presence continues to shape my spirit. And that gentle contrast—between the softness of Martha and the complexity of my other grandmother—keeps inviting me back to the space where lineage and memory intertwine.

I remember a story my Little Grandma Rose told me about Martha’s passing: she was joking with her doctor, and while still laughing, she turned her head and passed away. She died on my Grandma Rose’s birthday. That detail has always stayed with me. A laugh. A departure. And a forever-altered birthday.

These are the stories that shape us, even if we didn’t live them. And maybe… especially if we did.

If you’re curious about exploring these possibilities yourself, I encourage you to try the same meditation that opened these doors for me:

Brian Weiss’s Past Life Regression (from K D channel)
This video is a guided past life regression session led by Brian Weiss. He explains that past life experiences can occur in various ways, such as dreams, déjà vu, or recognizing a soulmate. The session aims to help participants directly experience past lives through relaxation techniques, healing light visualization, and guided recall of childhood memories, in utero/prenatal experiences, birth experiences, and past life regressions. After the guided session, Weiss discusses common experiences and emphasizes that practice can deepen the experience.
Watch it here:

And for those who wish to dive even deeper, I also recommend this thought-provoking piece:

There’s a Reason You Can’t Remember Being Born — And It’s Not What You Think (from Wise Minds channel)
This video explores unconventional explanations for why humans cannot remember their birth. It suggests that birth is an intense, traumatic experience, too overwhelming to be stored in memory. Other theories presented include the idea that the soul is consciously forced into a body it did not choose, that birth involves a “mental rupture” where everything previously known is erased, and that there’s a systemic suppression of pre-birth memories. The video also touches on consistent accounts of a “white room” experience before life, the idea that DNA carries echoes of past experiences, and that forgetting birth was a deliberate act to prevent being overwhelmed. It concludes that while we weren’t meant to remember, we also weren’t meant to fully forget, driving a continuous search for something unnamed.
Watch it here:

These insights feel deeply connected to what I’ve experienced in meditation—visions not just of other lives, but of something larger. Something systemic. And that ache we sometimes feel, the strange homesickness under the stars? It might be the echo of that memory refusing to die quietly.

I also encourage you to explore the work of researchers like Dr. Ian Stevenson, Dr. Jim Tucker, and Dr. Brian Weiss. Each of them approaches this phenomenon from unique angles—Stevenson and Tucker with clinical and case-based rigor, and Weiss with a blend of psychiatry, spirituality, and healing insight that I’ve personally found awe-inspiring. I listen to his audiobooks often, and his ability to open the heart and mind to what lies beyond is unlike anything I’ve experienced. My own journey with Dr. Tucker’s work is chronicled in another CherryCoBiz post—A Journey Through Time: Embracing the Past-Life Phenomenon Through My Son’s Eyes. That story, sparked by my son’s unexpected statements about a life before this one, reshaped how I understand the possible.

This post is both a QuietQuest and a Reverb—because it’s meditation and memory, vision and vibration. I may never know the truth of what these visions mean, but I know the truths they stirred in me. And maybe that’s what this is about—not proving a past life, but reclaiming the wisdom we’ve carried all along.

To wonder is to awaken.
To reflect is to remember.
To remember… is to begin again.

If any part of this stirred something in you—whether a memory, a dream, or a quiet ache you can’t name—know you’re not alone. Feel free to share your reflections or just your presence below.