30 Days of Past Life Regression – Day 2: The English Rose Garden

Today’s past life regression was gentle and effortless, like stepping into a dream already waiting for me. My Past Life Regression Experience

As I opened the portal door in my mind, a familiar warmth wrapped around me like a shawl. I looked down and saw my hands, soft, milky white, with slender fingers and delicate wrists. They were the kind of hands untouched by hardship, their only labour the occasional embroidery needle or the lifting of a teacup.

My eyes followed the gentle fall of fabric from my waist. I was dressed in a Victorian gown of pale blush and shimmering white, intricately embroidered with golden thread that sparkled where the sunlight touched it. I turned slowly, admiring the way the skirt whispered against itself as I moved. My hair was a soft, golden blonde, curling slightly as it fell halfway down my back. My reflection, in some distant memory, had blue eyes, eyes full of wonder and softness. I remembered this version of me well.

This life had been a peaceful one. I was a young woman in England, born into a wealthy family with land and title, the only daughter among seven children, six boisterous brothers and me.

Our home was a grand estate tucked into the English countryside, with gardens that stretched like poetry across the land.

Behind the house, there was a vast rose garden, a labyrinth of hedges and flowering pathways that wound endlessly in every direction. The roses bloomed in hues of crimson, blush, ivory, and deep gold, their petals soft and fragrant, their presence calming and familiar. I would often spend my afternoons walking those winding paths, trailing my fingers along the leaves, barefoot on the cool stone paths, lost in the gentle hum of bees and birdsong.

In that life, I had hardly a care in the world. I was loved. Protected.

Nurtured by a family that wished only to see me happy and free. My father, brothers, and the man who courted me all took great care to shield me from anything that might trouble my heart. I lived in a beautifully naive world, where my greatest dilemma was what to wear to afternoon tea, and even then, the maids usually decided for me.

My mother and I were the only women in the household, and we shared a quiet bond, gentle, intuitive, unspoken. We spent our mornings together, wrapped in shawls as we sipped tea on the garden bench. We listened to the birds above, the rustling leaves, the rain tapping against the tall windows of the parlour. We found joy in the simple things: the weight of a warm teacup, the scent of fresh lavender, the softness of summer air.

We didn’t align ourselves with any social circle in particular. We were friendly with many, noble and servant alike. My mother had taught me that kindness should never be dictated by wealth or lineage, and I carried that with me. Though we sometimes received disapproving glances for speaking so warmly with those “beneath” us, we hardly noticed. We were too enchanted by their stories, their laughter, their unique perspectives. The poorer folk, I learned, often carried the richest tales.

My father was a man of both dignity and softness. He adored me, and though he carried the responsibility of marrying me into wealth, he never once treated it as a burden. When it came time for me to marry, I trusted him completely to find someone worthy. And he did.

The man chosen for me was kind and strong, just a few years older than I, and handsome in that calm, timeless sort of way. I didn’t know what passionate love felt like, but I knew comfort, respect, companionship, and that felt close enough. Ours was a quiet kind of happiness, easy and peaceful, one that looked and felt like love to the world around us.

He got along wonderfully with my father and brothers. On holidays, they would go hunting together, laughing over pints in the parlour afterward, while my mother and I strolled through the gardens, arm in arm. We lived in a world of elegance and ease.

Together, we had five children—three daughters and two sons—all strong and healthy. Our estate flourished, and we gave our children everything we could. We filled our home with music, with poetry, with laughter. Our halls echoed with the footsteps of children playing and the scent of rosewater drifting in from the gardens.

But life, no matter how soft its beginning, always invites the shadows in time.

In my thirties, my mother fell ill. A fever took hold of her, slowly at first, then all at once. I sat by her bedside for days, holding her hand, listening to her soft breath grow weaker. When she passed, the light seemed to flicker in our house. I watched my father cry for the first time. A man who had always seemed so sure, so solid, crumbled with grief.

After her death, something shifted in him. He became withdrawn, bitter, and short-tempered. The fire in his spirit dimmed. He began to drink, a quiet, unrelenting habit. His business suffered, and my eldest brother stepped in to take over, gently easing our father into retirement. Stripped of purpose, of companionship, he withered. And not long after, he died too. Whether from the drink or from heartbreak, I was never quite sure.

It was then that I began to understand the world differently.

The innocence I had lived in, warm and safe, began to dissolve. Though my husband was as steadfast and loving as ever, I found myself withdrawing. I stopped attending gatherings. I rarely left the grounds. I turned my attention inward, toward my children, toward the gardens. But even the roses seemed dimmer now. Their fragrance weaker. The sun less golden. The rain more mournful.

Then came the next blow, one of our children fell ill. Despite every effort, we lost them too.

That was when the colours drained from my world entirely.

I descended into a grief that consumed me. It was a fog I could not see through, a silence I could not bear to break. For years, I existed only in body, my spirit absent. I neglected everything and everyone. I stopped noticing my children. I stopped hearing their laughter. I moved like a ghost through our home, lost in sorrow and confusion. The world I had believed to be so beautiful had revealed itself to be cruel.

And then, one day, one of my daughters, a girl with her grandmother’s gentle soul, came to me.

She placed her small hand on my cheek and looked into my eyes.

It was the first time in years that I had truly seen someone.

Her eyes were full of love, of patience, of longing. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. In that instant, something within me shattered and reformed. The weight on my chest lifted. The haze thinned. I saw my family again, and with that, I saw the light again.

I wept as I held her close. I kissed her cheeks and whispered apologies. I inhaled the scent of her hair and promised myself I would never again miss a moment of this fleeting, precious life.

From that day on, the world slowly returned to colour. The roses bloomed again, and I noticed. The sun warmed my skin, and I welcomed it. My children, once distant, became my joy again. I played hide and seek with my sons in the hedges, laughed over tea with my daughters in the garden. Life resumed, with all its beauty and unpredictability.

Even our family’s fortune began to rebound, as if joy itself had opened the doors to abundance again. We found peace. We found each other.

Years passed, and we grew older, my husband and I, and we watched our children grow into kind, brilliant adults. We became grandparents, then great-grandparents, and the house was again filled with children’s laughter, the kind that echoes and lingers long after it’s gone.

My husband passed just a year before me, in his sleep, with a smile on his lips and my hand in his.

This life was not without sorrow, but it was full. It was one of beauty, love, and deep lessons. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always felt drawn back to England in this life, because some part of me remembers the roses, the hedges, the sunlit windows, and the kind of peace that comes from knowing you were deeply loved.

The Lesson This Past Life Gave Me

This past life reminded me of the sacred balance between innocence and awareness, between comfort and presence.

There is beauty in a life of ease, but that beauty is not immune to change. And when pain inevitably comes, as it does in every lifetime, it’s not there to destroy us, but to awaken us. To teach us to see what truly matters.

I learned that grief can close the heart, but love, especially the love of those still with us, can open it again. That healing doesn’t mean going back to how things were, but learning to let life bloom again in a new way.

In this lifetime, I carry that wisdom.

I remember that peace is not the absence of sorrow, but the courage to keep walking through the garden, even after the flowers fade.

And that sometimes, all it takes to wake us up... is the touch of someone who loves us, reminding us to come back to the world that still holds beauty.

If you're ready to explore your own past lives through a guided regression, book a session here.

Or if you’d like to receive intuitive insight into a past life through a channelled message, book a past life reading here.

Your story is waiting to be remembered.

Emma Elizabeth

www.RealmsofAlchemy.com