I began writing Carol’s Lives during a quiet winter in Canada, not long after I made the decision—hesitantly at first—to share these stories. It did not feel like a logical next step. My first book was a manual, structured and instructional. This one asked something entirely different of me. It required me to trust narrative, memory, and experience in a way that felt far less controlled.
The origin of this book was not a plan, but a moment. In conversation with a client-turned-friend who had discovered her own intuitive abilities through our hypnotherapy work together, I found myself recounting the story of how my partner and I had encountered each other—not just in this life, but through regression sessions that revealed other lifetimes. At some point, she simply said, “Here’s your next book.” I resisted. I did not think I knew how to write stories. But I also knew that if I started from what was real—what had been seen, felt, and experienced in session—the rest might take shape on its own.
That is how this book was written.
The material comes from past life regression sessions conducted in the early years of my hypnotherapy practice. At that time, I was both professionally trained and personally curious. I had not been formally taught to conduct these sessions in depth, yet I found myself drawn to them with a familiarity I could not explain. Working with people close to me allowed a kind of openness—there was room to explore without performance, and without the pressure to prove anything.
What emerged surprised me. The sessions were detailed, emotionally consistent, and often carried themes that extended beyond a single lifetime. In particular, the life of “Carol” stood out—not only because of its clarity and continuity, but because of how it intersected with present relationships in ways I could not have anticipated.
Writing this book required me to make a decision about how to present these experiences. At one point, I considered framing it fully as fiction. It would have been simpler. There would be no need to address questions of accuracy or belief. But as I wrote, it became clear that the story did not behave like fiction. The emotional truth of the sessions, the specificity of the details, and the personal nature of the material resisted being categorized that way.
At the same time, I am aware that not everything here can be verified in a conventional sense. Past life regression exists in a space that invites interpretation. Some may view these experiences as memory, others as imagination, metaphor, or subconscious construction. I have no need to resolve that for the reader. My role here is to present what occurred as faithfully as possible, and to allow space for your own understanding.
If my first book was written to teach a method, Carol’s Lives is written to share an experience. It is less about how to do past life regression, and more about what can unfold when you do. It reflects a period in my life where professional practice and personal discovery were closely intertwined, sometimes indistinguishably so.
Looking back, I can see that writing this book also changed how I relate to my work. It moved me away from needing to define or defend what happens in session, and toward observing it more openly. Whether one approaches this material from a spiritual perspective or a psychological one, the value often lies in what it reveals about patterns, emotions, and relationships—both past and present.
This book is one account of that exploration.
You may read it as a story, as a case study, as a memoir, or simply as a series of experiences. However you choose to approach it, I trust that you will find your own meaning within it.
