I Died Before I Lived

On the day I was to be born, my mom was in the delivery room, and my dad was in the waiting room. Doctors came in to talk with my dad; they told him that there was a strong chance there would be problems during the birth. The doctors told my dad that it was possible that only one could survive, either me or my mom, and then asked him who he wanted them to keep alive. My dad looked them in the eyes and said, I want you to keep them both alive. Truth be told, the doctors wanted to abort me so my mom could live. As the birth took place, I was completely blue with no heartbeat. The doctors worked hard to get my heart beating for ten or more minutes, then gave up. They set me aside and began filling out paperwork. It was then that I came back to life.

There are moments in life that define us–and then there are moments that precede life itself. My story begins not with a first step, a first word, or even a first breath sustained…but with death.

I died at birth.

That statement isn’t metaphorical. It isn’t poetic exaggeration. It’s the stark, clinical reality of how my life entered this world–through silence where there should have been a cry, through stillness where there should have been movement. In the delivery room, what was meant to be a celebration turned into a crisis. The expected rhythm of life was interrupted before it ever had a chance to establish itself. 

For a moment–seconds, minutes, however long it was–I was gone.

No breath. No response. No sign of life. And yet… I am here.

Birth is typically framed as a beginning. But for me, it was a threshold–a crossing point where life and death touched before deciding which direction I would go.

What strikes me now isn’t just the medical anomaly of survival. It’s the implication: before I ever could strive, to prove, to earn, or to become–I was given life twice. 

The first time through biology.

The second time through was what can only be described as an intervention.

Call it a miracle. Call it divine will from my savior. Call it the resilience of the human body or the urgency of medical response. Whatever language you choose, the outcome remains the same: I came back. 

When your life begins with an interruption, it subtly reshapes how you understand everything that follows.

• You don’t see time the same way.
• You don’t interpret setbacks the same way.
• You don’t even define “being here” the same way.

Because at the very core of your existence is this unshakeable truth: you weren’t guaranteed this.

Most people live as if life is linear–start, progress, end. But my story begins with a disruption to that line. It begins with a break in continuity. And that break introduces  a different lens:

Life is not assumed – it is assigned.

Breath is not automatic – it is permitted.

Existence is not owed – it is given.

Even if I had no conscious memory of that moment, the narrative carries weight. Whether understood spiritually, emotionally, or philosophically, it creates a foundational identity:

I’m here on purpose, not by accident. 

That belief isn’t about ego–it’s about responsibility.

If your life had an early exit point…and yet continued, it naturally raises the question: Why?

Not in a passive, abstract sense–but in a deeply personal, directional one.

Why was I preserved?

What is this life meant to produce?

What impact justifies a second chance given before consciousness?

These aren’t questions of pressure. They’re questions of alignment.

From Survival to Assignment

There’s a difference between surviving and being sent.

Survival suggests chance.

The assignment suggests intention.

When you’ve “died” before you’ve even begun, your life starts to feel less like something you’re building from scratch–and more like something you’re stepping into.

That doesn’t mean every step is clear. It doesn’t mean life is easier. In fact, it often means the opposite. There’s a weight to purpose, a tension between who you are and who you sense you’re meant to become.

But that tension is evidence of something deeper: you were preserved for a reason.

The Quiet Power of a Miracle

Not all miracles are loud. Not all of them become headlines or testimonies told on stages.

Some miracles are quiet–so early, so hidden, that the world moves on without ever knowing what happened.

Mine was one of those.

No audience. No memory. Just a moment where everything could have ended…but didn’t.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because the value of a miracle isn’t in how many people witness it–it’s in what it produces over time.

Living Forward

I didn’t earn my first breath.

I didn’t fight for my return.

I didn’t decide to come back.

But I do decide what I do with the life that follows.

That’s where the real story begins.

Every decision, every risk, every act of courage or hesitation–it all sits downstream from that initial moment. A moment that quietly asks, again and again:

What will you do with the life you were given twice?

This isn’t just a story about dying at birth.

It’s a story about living with awareness.

Awareness that life is fragile

Awareness that purpose often precedes understanding.

Awareness that sometimes, before you ever take your first step, your life has already been fought for.

And won. When I was born, I was no “ordinary” child.

Don’t just read my story–Reach out, take that first step you’ve been avoiding, get healing for what’s broken, or pursue what’s been calling you. Life is fragile, but it’s also powerful. Make the most of yours. 

If my life could begin with a miracle, then your life is no accident. There is a purpose written over you. Walk in it, embrace it, let your life become a testimony of what’s possible when you don’t give up! 

When you were born, you were no “ordinary” child.

TAKE ACTION: If this story resonates, pause and ask yourself: What am I doing with the life I’ve been given? Take one step today toward what you’ve been avoiding—whether it’s healing, growth, or purpose—and choose to live it fully. Сonnect with Philip Zaldatte to explore deeper transformation and alignment with your life’s calling.