June 6, 2025 Lemira

What is Past Life Regression?

Intuitive Spirit Advice

There’s a line between “open-minded” and “woo woo,” and I’m fully aware that I crossed it years ago. Wearing crystals? Totally fine. Getting into energy healing? A little deeper, but still socially acceptable. Talk to me about heart chakras, soul contracts, or cacao ceremonies, and I’m already lighting sage and pulling up a pillow.

But one thing I had never gotten around to trying, which was something that always lingered in the back of my mind, was past life regression. I’d read about it, heard others talk about it, and always felt like it was calling me, but I never quite took the plunge. I wasn’t scared exactly, but I did wonder… what if I found something I wasn’t ready for?

Then one day, by sheer chance or maybe fate, I met a practitioner named Oliver during an intuitive development workshop. He taught the class with such ease and depth that I felt instantly drawn to his energy. Afterward, we got to talking, and he mentioned that one of the things he offered, aside from energy healing and tarot, was past life regression. I booked my session that same week.

I figured if anything could explain the weird emotional patterns I kept bumping into and things therapy hadn’t helped me unpack, that maybe this could. I’ve always been pulled toward certain time periods and places in a way that feels irrational. And emotionally, I’ve carried this heavy, inexplicable feeling of being left behind, even though in my current life, that’s never actually happened.

What Is Past Life Regression, Really?

Before we started, Oliver gave me a gentle rundown of what to expect. “Past life regression,” he explained, “is more about accessing the subconscious mind than proving reincarnation. I don’t convince people their past lives are real or spiritual; that’s not the point. It’s about exploring where your inner patterns and memories may be rooted.”

He explained that several kinds of experiences can come through: sometimes people recall what seems like their own past lives, sometimes ancestral memories, and sometimes even dreams or fragments that hold symbolic meaning. Some people tune into what he called “parallel lives,” versions of ourselves existing elsewhere. Others tap into a kind of shared consciousness, like glimpsing into stories held by collective memory.

The idea wasn’t to prove anything. It was about insight. That helped take the edge off. I wasn’t worried I’d suddenly discover I was a villain in a past life, okay, maybe a little, but I did wonder what would come up and whether it would make sense.

Getting Started

Oliver welcomed me into a cozy space that felt more like a cross between a therapist’s office and a meditation room than anything mystical. He asked for some basic details, but not the usual intake form, but things like my parents’ names and a few important people in my life. That part felt oddly grounding.

Then we began the actual process. He guided me through a calming meditation, slowly helping my mind sink into a quieter place. His voice was steady, reassuring, and within about twenty minutes, I felt myself drifting into that soft, in-between space where thoughts slow down and the imagination opens.

“Picture a mirror in front of you,” he said gently. “Let something appear in the reflection.” That’s when things started to shift.

Who I Saw in the Mirror Wasn’t Me… Or Maybe It Was

In the reflection, I saw an older man, maybe in his seventies, sitting stiffly in a wooden chair. We were by the ocean, on a rocky shore that felt unmistakably British. It reminded me of somewhere like Whitby or Hastings, those gray, wind-swept coastal towns that feel like they belong to another era. I got the impression that it was sometime in the early 1900s.

The man looked irritated and distant. I didn’t feel a connection to him, not yet. Oliver prompted me to look down at myself.

I was a child. Maybe four. I had this strange haircut, short and uneven like someone had hacked it with kitchen scissors. I wore shiny black shoes and a pale dress with a lace collar. I kept staring at my hands, my legs, my face, because something about it felt jarring.

I was white. And in this life, I’m not. That shook me a bit more than I expected. There was this weird feeling of dissociation, like I was looking out of someone else’s eyes entirely. Oliver had warned me this might happen, and it’s surprisingly common in regression, and encouraged me to stay with it.

We explored the relationship between the man and the little girl I’d become. Turns out, he was my caretaker. Maybe an uncle or a family friend. But there was no warmth there. No affection. We lived in a small, cold house not far from the shore, and I felt like I barely existed in his world.

The House Felt Like a Memory

Oliver asked me to look around my room in this memory. I saw a single bed with a worn-out quilt, dusty rose-colored walls, and a window that faced the street. The room was bare. No toys. No decorations. Just silence and sadness.

I spent a lot of time there, all alone. Reading, watching people walk by, wondering where my real family had gone. I had the sense that I was waiting. For what, I didn’t know.

Then, in flashes, I saw another house. A bigger one. Warmer. It had voices, laughter, the clatter of dishes, and little feet running down a hallway. There were other children. Siblings, maybe. And I felt love there, something I hadn’t felt in the other place.

The realization slowly settled in: I’d been evacuated. Likely during a war, maybe World War II or earlier. I’d been taken from my home and placed with this man, and while he didn’t hurt me, he didn’t love me either. That version of me felt like she’d been forgotten. Left behind.

And then… nothing. Just stillness. Oliver asked me to move the story forward, but there was nowhere to go. I was still in that room. Still small. Still waiting.

That’s when it hit me. I didn’t survive. I passed away, young, I was maybe around six. I didn’t feel fear, just a deep wave of grief. Not for me now, but for that child who never got a future.

Coming Back

Oliver guided me gently out of that space and back to the present. It took some time. My whole body felt heavy, like I’d been carrying something I didn’t realize I was holding. The session lasted around 90 minutes, but it felt both longer and shorter, kind of like time folded in on itself.

Afterward, I sat quietly for a while, trying to make sense of everything. There was no dramatic revelation, no booming voice from the beyond, but just quiet sadness, and a strange sense of familiarity.

I couldn’t stop thinking about those shoes. The walls. That old seaside town. Over the next few days, the details stayed with me. I’ve always been obsessed with mid-century history, my home is full of vintage decor, I mostly wear clothes from the 1940s and 50s, and I’ve always had a thing for melancholic seaside towns. I thought it was just an aesthetic. Now? I’m not so sure.

What It Left Me With

I don’t think that session “fixed” anything. It didn’t solve all my emotional puzzles. But it did shine a light into a part of me I’d never looked at before.

That deep sense of abandonment I’ve always carried is the kind that therapy couldn’t explain, and now feels like it belongs to someone. A little girl who once waited by a window for someone who never came back.

Maybe it’s not about whether it’s real or imagined. Maybe the meaning matters more than the mechanics.

Oliver told me afterward, “It doesn’t really matter if the experience comes from a true past life, your subconscious, or somewhere in between. What matters is what it brings up, what it reveals. That’s where the healing starts.”

He also reminded me that these sessions don’t always bring peace. Sometimes they stir up sadness, confusion, or even grief. “That’s okay,” he said. “You can sit with it. You can hold space for it. It’s just another part of who you are.”

Would I Do It Again?

Yes, absolutely. Not because it gave me clear answers, but because it gave me a new lens. A new way to look at the strange parts of myself that never made sense. It reminded me that healing doesn’t always come from understanding the past in a linear way. Sometimes it comes from honoring the emotions we’ve carried for lifetimes, whether we remember them or not.

If you’re curious about past life regression, go in with an open mind. Don’t expect fireworks or closure. Just go in willing to listen to whatever your soul wants to show you. Because sometimes, the past isn’t just behind you. It’s part of you. And maybe remembering that is the whole point.