What I learned from a near death experience

I had a near death experience around one year ago while horse riding.

One moment, I was enjoying the ride, and in a flash, I was staring up at the sky, breathless and disoriented.

It took a few seconds to shake off the shock and realize what had just happened—I’d been flung off the back of a retired racehorse.

As I lay there, my heart raced. Images of Christopher Reeve, the former Superman actor who spent the last years of his life in a motorized wheelchair after a devastating horse-riding accident, flashed in my mind.

I was in a state of fear that I would end up like him or die shortly.

The instructor rushed over, his voice calm but urgent, asking me to move my hands and feet.

Relief flooded through me as I wiggled my fingers and toes, grateful beyond words that I could still feel them.

With help from the instructor, I made it to the side.

The horse—hungry and impatient—had grown tired of my fumbling as an average rider. He sensed I was not as confident, noticed his friends already enjoying their evening meal, and in his frustration, he threw me off.

I was incredibly lucky to be alive. When I fell, I landed at just the right angle, narrowly avoiding landing on my head.

How you land matters so much: In Reeve’s case if he had landed on his neck an inch higher, he would have been dead; if he’d landed an inch lower, he would have walked away with barely a bruise.

It had rained earlier that day, so the ground was wet and soft—another stroke of luck that cushioned the impact.

In the chaos, the horse could have easily panicked and trampled me. Considering that the average adult horse, standing 160-170 cm tall, weighs around 500-600 kg, I would not have survived.

Everything aligned in my favor, and I was spared from what could have been a much more tragic outcome.

Despite being in the most pain I’ve ever felt, my first thought was not to rush to the hospital.

Instead, I somehow convinced myself that heading to the Botanic Gardens Cold Storage for ice packs was the solution.

When I got there, to my dismay, they didn’t even sell ice packs.

In my haze of panic, I called my ex. He advised me to get a full-body checkup, just in case something was broken.

I decided to make my way to Farrer Park Hospital. I vaguely remembered it had the shortest waiting time at A&E—something that felt crucial at that moment.

As I sat there in the hospital, waiting to be seen, my mind wandered to Warren Buffett’s wisdom on risk:

It hit me hard. All the effort I’d put into improving my health, all the time spent strengthening my body—it could all be undone by just one reckless moment. One accident.

It was not worth the risk.

From that moment, I made a promise to myself: I would not ride horses again.

About 81% of riders will experience an injury at some point, and 21% will experience a serious injury. This risk reward ratio did not make sense to me.

Another thing I was thinking about in the hospital was my event with Tinmen Capital.

I was scheduled to moderate a panel with Oliver Jay the next day (now Managing Director of Open AI international expansion).

We’d put in the time to carefully prepare the questions, making sure we’d deliver the most value to the audience.

I wondered if I could even make it given that I was hurting so much. I wondered if I was hospitalized, would the nurse let me go out to moderate a panel and come back?

I have always had a strong distaste for people who commit to something and then back out last minute. I did not want to be that person.

When the X-ray results came back, there were no broken bones—just an extremely nasty bruise.

The doctor told me to rest, handed me an ice pack, and prescribed some painkillers.

I had every excuse to not show up. I could not even sleep on my back, and something as simple as bathing or putting on a shirt was extremely painful.

Despite this, I made a decision. I dosed myself with painkillers, braced myself, and did what I promised to do.

The event turned out to be a super fun one. Though I could not stay as long as I wanted because the painkiller effects wore off.

I realized that if someone really wants something, they would not make an excuse.

They would show up regardless.

Had this event be like a catch up with an acquaintance, I would have definitely postphone it or asked to do it remotely.

It is because I was dying to be there that I showed up despite all circumstances.

It paid off. The Tin Men Capital team was happy with my work and also checked in on me a few days later to see if I was okay. I was also asked to moderate another panel.

During my recovery, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude—gratitude for life, for mobility, for the simple ability to move.

For 3-4 weeks, I couldn’t exercise at all. When I returned to it, the pain lingered.

Yet, that process of healing, of slowly getting better, was indescribable.

It made me feel a deep sense of gratitude.What a privilege it is to run fast, to lift heavy, to feel my body’s strength in motion! How lucky am I to be able to cycle and swim!

These are things you take for granted—until you can’t do them anymore. That loss, even temporary, served as a powerful reminder of how lucky we are to be mobile.

This experience, along with my Dexa Scan results, strengthened my resolve to truly take care of my body.

I made a commitment to myself to start to gym regularly, embracing a hybrid athlete lifestyle.

Now, I focus on strength training three times a week, alongside one long run and one sprint session.

This incident has taught me a lot on risk, on showing up and making me treasure being able to move.

While it was a painful one, looking back, I am reminded of how these ups and downs make a beautiful life.

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