I Dreamed the Lives I Wanted—Until Dying Gave Me the One I Needed

From rock shows to improv stages to spirit work—how my daydreams came true, and why the next chapter asks for no audience at all.

There’s a difference between waiting for life and actually living it.

I’ve been sitting with that lately—not out of frustration, but reflection. Because I’ve realized something: almost everything I ever really dreamed about as a kid... I somehow ended up doing. Not all at once. Not through some magic trick. But through love, persistence, daydreaming, and a kind of cosmic timing I didn’t understand at the time.

And it’s funny—because I wasn’t always trying to manifest anything. I was just seeing it. Living in it, in my mind. I’d listen to records and see myself on stage. I’d imagine the crowd, the lights, the music. I wanted to be a rockstar before I even knew what that meant. And even though the odds weren’t in my favor, I ended up in bands. I sang in clubs. I traveled. I lived that dream. Not in some big celebrity way—but in a very real way. It happened.

Then the universe nudged me again.

One day, I was walking past a metaphysical shop in Milwaukee. There was a psychic’s table set up in the window, right next to a bookshelf full of spiritual books. I paused for a second and looked in.

And I had this quiet little thought:
“I think I’m going to do that one day.”

It was just a passing moment. But I remember it. I remember the feeling.

Then I went inside and sat down for a reading.

The woman looked at me and asked, “Are you a writer?”

I said no. I didn’t know anything about writing. I actually thought I was terrible at it.

She smiled and said, “You will be. You’re going to write.”

I shrugged it off, but something about it stuck.

Later that day, I got home and found a pamphlet in my mailbox. Not mailed—just sitting there. It was from Redbird Writing Studios, this little creative arts center near the lakefront.

I opened it, expecting writing classes. And they were there. But what caught my eye was an acting class.

So I signed up. Not for writing—for acting.

And that one random decision opened the next chapter of my life.

I started taking acting classes in this old converted nunnery-turned-art school. A few months in, my teacher asked if I’d auditioned for anything yet. I hadn’t. I barely saw myself as an actor. But I found a nearby community theater and auditioned for The Canterville Ghost—a play I’d never heard of.

I decided to audition for one of the ghosts—because honestly, I thought it’d be an easier part. And, truthfully, it felt right.
As someone who had seen spirits since childhood, I thought, if I’m going to act, why not start with something that already lives inside me?

They asked us to read with English accents. Thanks to years of Monty Python and Absolutely Fabulous, I had one in my back pocket.

I got the part. Actually, I got the title role. I walked into the first rehearsal and people clapped when I entered. I thought I’d be a side character. I was the lead.

From there, it snowballed. Play after play. Lead after lead. Then came improv. Then came Second City in Chicago. Then came teaching and directing.

But I wasn’t done dreaming yet.

After teaching improv and directing shows, I started going to stand-up comedy gigs. And just like with music and theater, I felt that familiar spark. I’d sit in the audience and think, I want to do that.

So I took a comedy class. I started writing sets. Performing. And it turned out—I was good at that too.

I started playing clubs all over. In 2014, just before my NDE, I did a contest at a major comedy club in North Carolina. After my set, they told me I could come back any time—I’d have a spot whenever I wanted. And I even began teaching comedy too, helping others find their voice.

But what I’ll never forget is what my comedy teacher said to me at the end of that first class.

He looked at me, smiled, and said,
“Hey David… the world is waiting for you.”

That was the last chapter before everything changed.

It wasn’t until after my near-death experience that everything shifted.

Before the NDE, I was always becoming something. A musician. An actor. A comic. An improv teacher. And I was good at those things. I really was. But they were all roles. Costumes. Beautiful, fulfilling roles—but still roles.

After the NDE, I wasn’t playing parts anymore. I didn’t need the stage. I didn’t need the audience. I didn’t need the applause.

Because now, I wasn’t becoming someone. I was just being myself.

Working with spirit isn’t a performance. It’s an experience. It’s not about being seen. It’s about listening. It’s not a crowd—it’s one person. One conversation. One soul.

And you know what? I love it. Not because it makes me money. Honestly, I probably made more money doing all that other stuff. But I’d still do this even if I were a billionaire. Because now I’m doing something that isn’t about being revered or recognized. It’s about being real.

This is my life now—and I love it.

But that doesn’t mean the dreaming has stopped.

In fact, I think dreaming is how all of this started. Every chapter of my life began with a daydream. Not a desperate wish, not a vision board, not a forced manifestation. Just a deep, sincere daydream that came from love.

And here’s the beautiful thing:
That psychic was right.

I didn’t believe her when she said I’d be a writer. But here I am. Writing.
Writing my story. Writing my truth. Writing what I know from spirit and from experience.
And doing the very work she probably saw in me before I was willing to see it in myself.

So no—I didn’t get here by accident.
I dreamed my way here. I remembered my way here. I was led.

I don’t believe you have to force things into being. I think you just have to let yourself see them—and then walk toward them, one quiet step at a time.

Because when a dream is real, it doesn’t shout. It waits.

So if you’re someone who has those dreams that keep tugging at you—even if they’ve changed over time, even if they feel silly or unlikely—please know: the universe doesn’t think they’re silly at all.

You’re not just daydreaming. You’re remembering.

And it just might happen.