I have come to believe that such phobias often have their root cause in a past life and over the years I have helped countless clients overcome an array of them. After all, it was my own claustrophobia that led me some years ago to a hypnotherapist to find a solution – and my healing that led me to do this work.

It had been a good day for the young architect. His biggest project to date, a house for the new provincial governor, was nearing completion and it would certainly make his reputation. A messenger arrived to summon him to meet the governor, a personal favourite of the Pharaoh, and he must not be late so he picked up his rolls of plans and set off, heading west out of town. The Egyptian sun was still searingly hot even in the late afternoon. In a couple of hours the tall, tapered towers on each corner of the new house would stand out against the setting sun, creating an impressive silhouette on the skyline and, the architect smiled at the thought, flattering his client’s ego too.

The governor had already arrived on site and was waiting with the High Priest. This seemed a little strange but of course it was the client’s privilege to show off their property to whomsoever they chose. As they started to tour the house, the architect noted with pride that the master builders had done their work well, the sacred numbers and geometry of the design creating a pleasing sense of symmetry and grace. Columns and archways had been beautifully carved and the stonework was perfect, although he didn’t understand why the builders had left a large stone slab by the entrance to one of the underground storage rooms. He made a mental note to ask.

And it was just there that the governor and the High Priest stopped, asking the architect to check the dimensions of the underground room so they could calculate how many jars it would hold. One of the slaves brought a flaming torch and the architect went down the steps…

When he was at the furthest end, he heard a rumbling and scraping noise, and turned to see the stone slab being pushed across the entrance. Was this some kind of joke? Surely the slaves would move the slab back again and let him out? He ran back to the entrance, shouted and banged on the stone, but to no avail. As the hours passed it became clear that it was no joke and nobody was going to let him out. He had been left there to die. The torch fizzled and spluttered out, leaving him in complete darkness.

The architect stood against one of the smooth walls and slid down slowly until he was sitting on the earthen floor. While his body was still, his mind was racing, his emotions in freefall as conversations played out in his head.

“They’ll miss me, they’ll come looking for me.”

“Who will miss you? How will they know where to start looking? Nobody knows where you are.”

“My students will miss me, they’re coming to my house tonight. They’ll wonder where I am.”

Ah, his students! That was it. The High Priest must have found out that he was holding classes, passing on the ancient wisdom, the knowledge of numbers and the secrets of nature herself. Yes, he had already suspected this and had warned the young man before, reminded him in no uncertain terms that the penalty for revealing those secrets was death. But surely he didn’t mean it, did he? It seems he did, and how clever to involve the new governor, giving him a hold over the Pharaoh’s favourite.

Time passed. How much, it was impossible to tell. Complete silence, complete darkness and the inevitability of death surrounded the young man. Only total exhaustion and fitful sleep brought occasional relief. Alone with his thoughts, he began to ponder the meaning of life – and the process of dying.

“Will I starve or will I suffocate? What will happen to my body when I’m dead? How can my heart be weighed on the scales against the feather of Maat? Will my heart be light enough to allow me safe passage to the afterlife?”

At times, the architect wept in despair as he relived his life and thought of all that he had done and had not done, of those he loved and would never see again. At times, fear overcame him: he clawed at the stone, he pleaded with the gods, he screamed for mercy. And eventually he died, alone there in his tomb, having paid the ultimate price for daring to speak his truth and share the knowledge that could free others from the cruel control of their rulers.

I was that young architect. This was the life I went back to and experienced graphically when I visited a hypnotherapist to resolve my claustrophobia, my debilitating fear of being in enclosed spaces, especially underground. Uncovering that life, reliving those moments and emotions, cured my fear in one session and showed me just how powerful regression can be for healing.