“Only when we realize that our time is limited do we begin to appreciate the value of each day.” ~Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
I didn’t expect the trip to start the way it did.
In December 2003, I decided to take Christmas off. I booked an eco-tour of Sri Lanka, traveled around the country and stayed in different places. This was something I was looking forward to for a long time.
But during the flight on Christmas Eve, I started feeling sick. At first I thought it was just a stomach problem. There is nothing unusual during the journey. But the discomfort quickly turned into something more serious. I started to feel a deep, constant pain in my lower back.
By the time we landed, I knew something wasn’t right. I went up to the first hotel, where a doctor was called. I remember lying there, trying not to fuss, as he examined me. The diagnosis was a severe kidney infection. I was given strong pain medication and told to rest.
It was Christmas Day. Not quite the start I imagined.
My room was a small bungalow on the beach. I could hear other vacationers enjoying themselves outside while lying in the dark room trying to overcome the pain.
The next morning, there was a note under my door. The tour was supposed to start later that day, but since I was sick, the hotel manager agreed that I could stay behind and recuperate.
The thought of missing the tour didn’t sit well with me. I came this way, and I didn’t want to spend it lying in a room while everyone else left. So I decided to go.
I took the medicine with me and told myself I would manage.
Looking back, there was no sense that anything significant was about to happen. There are no warnings. There is no feeling that carries any weight beyond the decision of whether I will enjoy this trip or not. I just didn’t want to miss out.
We left the hotel and headed inland, starting the first part of the tour. Nothing happened until the next day.
We watched news footage on a television, but it was in a foreign language, and it was difficult to understand. There were images of destruction, water, confusion—something about a tsunami.
Our tour guide told us it was Thailand. It was partially true. As the days went by, bits of information began to arrive.
At that time, only a couple of visitors had mobile phones. They started getting messages—brief, vague, but enough to cause concern. Both of them were told that they were listed as “missing”. It didn’t make sense.
Then I managed to call a friend in the UK. Received the phone crying. He kept saying, “Thank God… Thank God.”
I didn’t understand at first.
And then it became clear. People believed we were dead. The hotel we were staying in—the hotel we checked out of that morning—was flooded.
The scale of what had happened was still unfolding, but the reality was already there. We were in that place, at that time, and for reasons that seemed perfectly normal, we were no longer there.
There were no dramatic moments. Just a calm, thoughtful understanding that things could have been very different.
Once our family was able to confirm that we were safe, the immediate tension subsided.
Later, we asked to be taken to the affected area. It was much closer than we expected.
After that the rest of the trip took a different tone. As a team, we did what we could to help where possible. It didn’t seem like much in the context of what had happened, but it seemed important to try.
When I got home, I wasn’t prepared for the reaction.
The number of messages, calls, concerned people – it was overwhelming. People I hadn’t spoken to in years were following the news, trying to find out if we were OK.
It was an emotional time, but not in the way I expected.
What happened to me didn’t just happen – it cared about how many people.
I had never really stopped to think about that before.
Life simply goes on, as it does. But, even briefly, being put on the other side of it—someone who people thought they might have lost—brought a different kind of perspective.
It shifted something. Not suddenly, but enough. Over time, that change became more noticeable.
I started seeing things differently – what was important, where my attention went, what felt important and what wasn’t. I found myself drawn to helping in ways I hadn’t considered before.
This eventually led me to spend time in Southeast Asia, volunteering and working with communities in Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. At one point, I was invited to live and work in a Buddhist monastery, helping blind students.
There was never a moment where I decided to change direction. It was quieter than that. A gradual turn is better than a sudden jump.
Looking back now, I wonder how it all started. Not with Tsunami. But I didn’t want to be sick. Difficulty I tried to push through. The thing that seemed to be getting in the way.
At the time, it was something to work on, something to ignore.
I don’t try to explain what happened. I don’t feel the need to give it a meaning or attach a conclusion to it, but I see it differently now.
Everything that disturbs us is not against us.
Not everything that seems like a problem actually is one.
And not everything that matters is announced in a way that we immediately recognize.
That trip began in a way that I resisted.
It unfolded in a way I didn’t understand.
And it left me with something I didn’t expect.
I still think about how close it all was. But more than that, I think about what came next and how easily I missed that too.
about Neil Burgess
Neil Burgess is an Akashic Records reader and teacher with over 30 years of experience working with people around the world. Her work focuses on helping individuals gain clarity and perspective in a grounded, practical way. After a life-changing experience in Sri Lanka in 2003, Neil spent a long time working with Buddhist monks in Southeast Asia and exploring a more purpose-driven direction. meet him globalakasha.com. and learn about An Akashic record is being read here.
