The Cave Dweller and the High Priestess
QHHT Experience
The stick comes from behind.
I don’t see it. I only feel the explosion of impact—wood or stone or bone, something hard, slamming into my spine with a force that drives the air from my lungs. White-hot pain shoots through my back. My knees buckle.
This is it. This is how I die.
The humans have found us.
I’m not actually dying. I’m lying under a blanket in McLean, Virginia, in November 2024, in a Quantum Healing Hypnosis session—that deep trance state where, supposedly, you can access past lives.
But that pain in my back is real. A death wound from 40,000 years ago that I can feel in my modern spine.
And it doesn’t leave. Not for three entire hours.
I’ve explored alternative healing throughout my life with what I call “open curiosity.” Not blind belief, but not cynical dismissal either. Just openness to what might emerge.
QHHT has no peer-reviewed research—it lives in that space between thousands of anecdotal experiences and zero scientific validation. I knew this going in.
What I didn’t expect was how different I would feel in each body. How much I would love one life and feel suffocated in another. How a session meant to reveal past lives would instead hold up a mirror to my present one.
The Cave
Bare feet on cold earth. I can feel every pebble, every shift in temperature. The soil is rich and dark. Pine trees rise around me, their scent sharp in air so crisp it stings my lungs.
I’m wearing furs tied with a leather belt decorated with teeth and bones—each one a kill, each one a meal that kept my people alive. I’m a 20-year-old Neanderthal. My body is strong, healthy, capable.
We’re about twenty of us, living in a massive cave. We hunt, fish, gather berries, haul wood for fires. We watch constantly for the violent humans who want us dead.
And then I’m sitting with them—my people—and the feeling hits me so hard I could weep: I belong here.
We’re sharing a meal. Meat roasted over fire. Vegetables. Berries. Everyone contributed. Everyone eats. There are no complicated rules. Just absolute bone-deep knowing that these are my people and I would die for any of them without hesitation.
When my practitioner asks what I do all day, the answer comes easily: I hunt. I fish. I gather. I watch for danger. And it feels easy. Natural. Right.
I love this life so much it hurts.
Then I’m made Chief. Only eight of us are left. I have to find other Neanderthals we can join for protection. I make decisions.
Bad decisions.
And then—the stick. The impact. The explosion of pain. I’m dying. The humans found us. I failed. Everyone I loved is being slaughtered around me.
The pain in my back is everything.
And then it’s the thing I carry with me—impossibly—into Egypt.
The Pyramid
The air is different here. Still. Stale. Heavy with incense and death.
I’m in one of the smaller pyramids. Stone walls. Narrow passages. Darkness except for oil lamps. My hands know exactly what to do—they’ve done this a thousand times.
We are six women who perform the mummification rituals. We work without speaking. Words are impure. Our entire existence is about maintaining purity so we can touch the dead.
I was chosen for this as a child. Trained. Taught that this was an honor. Prestigious.
But my body knows the truth: this is a cage.
We sleep in the same quarters. We eat together. We work together. We never leave each other’s presence—being in the community or alone for any amount of time, might contaminate us. No marriage. No children. No choice.
It should feel sacred. It feels empty. Worse than empty—wrong. Like being buried alive in a pyramid built for corpses.
Nala is the senior priestess. We work beside each other for years. And somewhere in all that silent proximity, something forbidden happens: I love her.
When her hands shake with age, I feel protective. But love is impure. Love lowers your vibration.
So I watch in silence when they come for her. She’s too old now. They give her poison.
Guilt rips through me like a blade. I shouldn’t feel this. Feeling this means I’m not pure.
But I feel it anyway.
Decades pass. My hands become the arthritic ones. When my day arrives, I ask my team to prepare my body after I’m gone. I feel their pain—sharp, silent, forbidden.
I deliberately don’t send them empathy. Emotions only lower vibrations.
They give me poison.
I die having never married. Never changed. Never been truly honored. I served the dead faithfully, and in return, I got to die the same death I watched Nala die.
I die having never really lived at all.
The Mirror
My Higher Self answers when my practitioner asks about the lesson: “She learned how important emotions are in the human experience. That’s why you are here!”
And suddenly I understand the cruelty of the comparison.
The cave-dweller—barefoot, furred, “primitive”—felt everything. Love so deep it was woven into daily survival. Eating together was holy. Dying trying to protect each other was holy.
The priestess—educated, trained, “sacred”—felt nothing she was allowed to keep. Every emotion had to be suppressed. Love lowered your vibration. Connection was contamination. The only pure thing was death.
I loved the cave-dweller’s life. I hated the priestess’s life.
And then my Higher Self said: In this current life, I’ve been living like the priestess.
I’m a sensitive being who has shut down. I’ve blocked people out. I’ve told myself emotions are too much, inappropriate, unprofessional. I’ve been serving structures while starving for what I actually need: the cave. The connection. The messy, authentic, allowed-to-feel-everything belonging.
The guidance was concrete: Meditate twice daily. Walk longer. Get off the phone before bed. Connect with animals and nature. Practice gratitude. Use the priestess’s discipline—she had that right—but for connection, not disconnection.
And this, which hit hard: “She’s overdoing her mission to help.”
I’ve been overserving. Over-giving. Performing rituals for the dead—metaphorically—instead of living.
What Actually Happened?
I’m writing this two years later. My back doesn’t hurt anymore. That phantom ache faded, but it took a week.
I can still feel it if I think about it. That impact. That knowing. That moment of understanding: I failed them.
I don’t know if I was actually a Neanderthal 40,000 years ago or an Egyptian priestess around 3,000 BC. I looked it up—women didn’t perform mummification. That was men’s work.
So either my subconscious is an elaborate storyteller, or I accessed something history got wrong, or… what?
What I know:
I felt different in each body. As the Neanderthal, my body was younger, stronger, more physical. My emotional register was wide open. As the priestess, my body was older, more rigid. My entire being knew how to shut down.
I felt the pain in my back for a week. Not “remembered” it. Felt it. How do you feel pain from a death that happened 40,000 years ago?
The guidance is working. I’m meditating more. Walking more. Practicing gratitude. And the things that voice said I needed to address—the overdoing, the shutting down—they’re uncomfortably accurate.
My body ached for days afterward. Deep, cellular aching. Like old poison working its way out.
Did I access actual past lives? Did my subconscious create elaborate metaphors? Did I tap into collective unconscious?
I don’t know. And increasingly, I’m not sure it matters.
When I tell people about this, I include that the research on hypnotherapy is solid—effective for pain, anxiety, various conditions. But QHHT specifically? Zero peer-reviewed studies. Just thousands of anecdotal reports.
I’m one of them now.
I cannot say if I was imagining these stories or if they were true past life regressions. I felt things and I gained valuable and insightful knowledge about how to move forward in my life. It was interesting how easily these stories emerged. She would ask, What are you wearing? I would look down and see it. Nothing I said felt contrived, but I am aware it was some part of me. I believe we have a collective consciousness, maybe I tapped into that. Maybe my imagination is very good with stories. I don’t have to know these answers to know I felt that for me, it was effective in some small way. But, the healing that is promised in the end, for me it didn’t happen. It is OK as I know these methods are at least interesting. I don’t believe there is a magic ritual to healing. But if you want to try this method, do it! You only live maybe 1000 times! If you look up Delores Canon, she has practitioners listed in your area.