My First PLR Experience
After reading Many Lives, Many Masters by Dr. Brian Weiss, I felt deeply drawn toward past life regression (PLR). My migraine doctor told me that he could guide me through the process, and I was excited to try it. He explained that the root cause of my health issues might be hidden in my subconscious, and PLR could help bring resolution.
I prepared for the session by answering all the questions he asked me. At the core, I wanted to understand why I often felt alone, neglected, unable to form lasting friendships, and why my parents had left me so early.
On the evening of 17th August, I went to the doctor’s clinic for my first session.
The moment came. I lay down on a sofa, the lights dim. Despite the noise outside, he reassured me it wouldn’t disturb the process. I trusted him completely—trust, after all, was the foundation of PLR. Step by step, he guided me into deep relaxation, until my body felt so heavy that I knew I would fall if not for the sofa beneath me.
He asked me to visualize my most special place, and I instantly found myself at the CTAE ground in Udaipur. I felt the air, the openness, and allowed myself to drift deeper. Soon, he asked me to walk forward, through a jungle. As I did, I sensed that my father was following me, ensuring I was safe.
Then he asked me to imagine a bridge. I saw a wooden one, but fear took over—I couldn’t cross it. I felt small, shivering, terrified. Behind me stood my father, encouraging me to go ahead. I begged him to come with me, but he shook his head.
“You have been too weak and timid,” he said. “You need to grow strong and lead your life yourself. That’s the wish of your mother too.”
I broke down crying. Barefoot, dressed in a torn gown, I struggled. But with my father’s blessings, I finally stepped ahead, watching him bid me goodbye.
Through tears, pain, and dark woods, I emerged on the other side into a vast ground of yellow grass. Suddenly, a bubbly little girl grabbed my hand. Laughing, she asked, “Why are you crying?” She pulled me to run and play with her. I followed, and soon saw her wooden house in the middle of the field.
Her parents welcomed me kindly, and when she asked if I could live with them, they smiled and said yes. For the first time, I felt relieved—though the sadness of missing my parents still lingered.
But soon another figure appeared: an elder girl, watching us from behind. She was not happy to see me holding the little one’s hand. We both understood her disapproval, but I couldn’t let go of the child.
That night, they fed me simple food—mashed potatoes, boiled vegetables. I searched for meat, but none was there. After dinner, we slept together, the little one in the middle, the elder and I on either side. The little one turned toward me, resting her hand gently on my cheek. For the first time in a long while, I felt safe.
But safety was short-lived. Suddenly, a great flood came, may be a dam broke because of a cloud burst. Water rushed in, drowning the little one and her parents. Only the elder sister and I survived.
We were taken to a refugee camp. The elder girl wept constantly and fell sick, but I promised to take care of her. Gradually, she recovered. She nurtured me, stood by me, while I—broken by the loss—slipped into despair.
In that life, I drowned my sorrow in alcohol. Eventually, I died young. But before I left, I carried gratitude in my heart for the elder sister who had cared for me. I wished that in her future life she would have many friends, so she would never feel lonely.
As I passed, I was told: you must learn to let go and move on. Because I failed to do so, I would need to be reborn, to face similar lessons again.
And so I understood:
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I lost my parents again in this life because their souls wanted me to move on.
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I married Deepa, because she is the elder one from that life, and I had to repay her.
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And the little one—the soul I felt such a deep connection with—remains the hidden question in my present life.
