I Was 18 Weeks Pregnant When I Was Run Over-Nothing Was Ever the Same

I was 18 weeks pregnant and, for the first time in a long time, I felt good.

It was August 2020-peak COVID-and my husband Matt and I had just fled Los Angeles after 14 years to start over in New York. I was working for The Ellen DeGeneres Show, still on West Coast hours, and had gone in for routine second-trimester labs.

Because of COVID restrictions, the waiting room was full and they asked me to wait outside.

It was a beautiful, sunny East Coast morning-one of those perfect days that feels like a quiet gift. I crossed the parking lot, found a patch of grass beneath a few trees and sat criss-cross, my back to the lot, texting friends back in L.A.

Then everything went dark.

It felt like a moment that stretched into eternity, but I later learned from security footage that it lasted less than a second.

One instant I was texting, the next I was being crushed beneath the weight of a car. My mind raced from fear to confusion to anger as I realized two tires were rolling over my body.

And then I wasn't there anymore. I was above myself, watching.

I saw my body lying in the grass in my favorite white smock dress. I saw the car come to a stop and an older woman get out, clutching her purse, terrified. People were running toward me, panicked.

And then I was back.

A woman knelt over me, asking my name. I told her I was pregnant. I remember asking if I was going to die.

I was strangely calm-stoic even. I was convinced I was bleeding internally, that this was the end. But after floating above my body, there was a peace I can't fully explain.

I wasn't in control anymore, and for some reason, I was completely OK with that.

The pain came rushing back when I got into the ambulance.

Because I was pregnant, they held off on giving me medication. At the hospital, doctors needed to reset my hip, which meant putting me under. I welcomed it. When I came to, I was drifting in and out as I felt a probe on my belly.

Even in my haze, I knew my baby was alive. The nurse's voice gave it away. That soft tone-hopeful, reassuring.

Relief washed over me.

Physically, though, I was shattered. My hip socket was broken, my pelvis fractured in multiple places. I had a broken rib, a broken elbow and severe road rash burns across my body.

Doctors told me I would need surgery on my hip and that I would have to relearn how to walk after months of recovery. But in that moment, lying in that hospital bed, all I felt was gratitude.

Because for hours before that, I thought I might never walk again. Instead, I learned I would heal. My baby would live. I didn't have a traumatic brain injury. I had hope.

Recovery was anything but easy.

There was constant pain-physical and emotional. I couldn't get out of bed on my own. I couldn't even use the bathroom without help. The burns on my back made lying down excruciating. I worried every time I needed an X-ray about what it meant for my unborn child.

But I was also surrounded by love I had never truly let myself receive before.

Matt took care of our 2-year-old son Will while showing up for me in every way he could. Friends sent food and flowers. My in-laws turned their living room into my bedroom. Even my boss, Ellen DeGeneres, ensured I was fully supported financially while I recovered.

Before this, I was always chasing something-success, validation, worth. If I wasn't working, what value did I have?

Being forced to stop changed that.

One night, lying in bed, I texted my best friend wondering with her, why did this happen to me? She said something simple: "Maybe it was written in the stars." And something inside me shifted. It felt true in a way I couldn't explain.

That was the beginning of something new.

In the months that followed, I began exploring spirituality-something I had once been skeptical of. I read everything I could. I spoke to intuitives. I started listening to a quiet inner voice I had ignored for years.

I got so passionate about exploring this way of life-for me this is what spirituality is-and I started a podcast, The Woo Report, to learn more about all the spiritual or spiritually adjacent modalities out there that can help people live better.

In January, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Wesley, via C-section. We brought him home to a family that felt like a miracle.

And slowly, as I healed, I understood what had happened to me that day. I don't believe I was just injured-I believe I was cracked open.

I believe it was my consciousness that left my body, that slipped beyond something I can only describe as a veil. And in that space, I felt a peace that reshaped everything I thought I knew about life.

Before, I thought success meant climbing a ladder-Emmys, proximity to celebrities, checking boxes. Now, success feels simpler. It's peace. It's presence. It's loving myself, my family, this life.

I truly believe we're here to learn how to love-and that's it.

That accident gave me that perspective. It stripped everything back to what matters. It taught me to receive love, to trust myself, to slow down and be here, now.

That's why, as strange as it may sound, I feel grateful.

Grateful for the accident that broke my body but awakened my soul. Grateful for every painful moment that led me to a deeper understanding of life. Grateful that I am still here, with my children, my husband, my full heart.

For a moment, I died and came back. Now, I live like I know that. Because I do.

Laura Scarpati is a mom of two with her husband Matt Dorsey. She hosts The Woo Report podcast which explores the unseen-from spiritual awakenings to astrology for the curious and open-minded.

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This story was originally published June 5, 2026 at 2:00 AM.