Not long ago, I stood before a couple to officiate their wedding ceremony, weaving together Spanish and English as their families listened. The bride’s name was Milagros—a word that translates to “miracles.” It felt fitting, not just for the day, but for something I didn’t yet understand would unfold.
The following weekend, I met Patricia, a nurse pursuing her PhD. As part of her research, she needed to study real-life cases that explored the connection between physiology, emotion, and survival. Somehow, my story found its way into her work.
Years earlier, I had been told I had only eight hours to live due to a medical error. Eight hours. A sentence delivered with a kind of detachment that felt almost unreal. Two weeks prior I was in labor for 48 hours. The last 10 hours I was on Pitocin. Both the woman in the next bed and I had no idea that the doctors were out playing golf and forgot us. I found that out later.
Both of us entered the hospital dying two weeks later. They had left her placenta in. She died.
I was watching three physicians fighting about what to do while they were standing at the foot of my bed. I remember looking at them knowing I might be dead soon. In my haze, I saw three organs, one above each head. Realizing they did not see the connection between who I am and what my body was doing—I reacted. Strongly.
I became angry.
Having been giving IV penicillin, I suddenly stopped breathing and apparently died for a few seconds. I did not see the light. I did not see anything. They quickly brought me back and it stopped their fighting. They pulled the plug and they left.
That anger sparked something in me—something powerful. It sharpened my awareness, heightened my senses, and fueled a determination that refused to give in. Three days later, I signed refused permission to treat papers and left with 11 bottles of drugs they wanted me to take. Arriving home, driven by the man who had attempted to kill me months before, I promptly went to the bathroom and flushed all the pills down where they belonged. I didn't trust any of them, the doctors and, of course my husband was a physician who ignored what was happening.
Before leaving the hospital I was told I was now sterile and could never have another child. It's really a good thing I don't listen very well at times. Particularly when someone sounds very impressed with themselves and has left two women to fight for their lives. Five years later, I had a son (with husband number two). By then I was entrenched in the holistic pathway.
When Patricia asked to include my case in her research, anonymity was required. Without hesitation, I chose the name Milagros. It felt right. Having come close to death twice in a very short time I believe that what appears to be luck is the work of the Soul as it travels within our body and through the frequency of light in the universe.
Months later, after she completed her PhD, Patricia sent me her thesis. In it, she explained what had happened from a physiological perspective: how intense emotional responses—like anger combined with purpose—can trigger powerful biochemical reactions in the body. Hormones surge. Systems activate. The body, when pushed to its limits, can access reserves we rarely tap into. She had given scientific language to something I had experienced.
Along with the thesis, she included a beautiful white feather wrapped at the stem with beads. It is many years since then and the white feather looks like it is aging alongside me. I keep it in my office as a reminder of why I write, why I give talks and how I hope that everyone has some miracles in their own life.
It reminds me that resilience isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s hidden beneath layers of routine, waiting for the moment it’s called upon. It reminds me that even in our lowest points—when we feel depleted, uncertain, or overwhelmed—there is still something within us that can rise.
We don’t always see it. We don’t always believe it.
But it’s there.
Milagros wasn’t just a name carried by a bride on her wedding day. It became a thread connecting moments—a celebration of love, a fight for life, and a deeper understanding of what it means to endure.
And the feather?
It stays with me as proof that life gives us more than we realize. Strength, resilience, and the ability to rise again—these are gifts we all carry.
Sometimes, all it takes is a quiet reminder to reach for them.
With gratitude for the wisdom of the First Peoples and the unseen threads that connect us,
Nancy
