💀 Meditations on Death

I turn 41 today.
I've also been thinking about death a lot lately.

Isn't it strange how we spend so much of our lives pretending death isn't a thing? We plan our careers, dream about retirement, and stress about whether our kitchen countertops are granite or quartz, all while this one absolute certainty of life sits quietly in the corner.

I was at the grocery store a couple days ago, watching people argue over the ripeness of avocados and thinking, "We're all going to die someday, and here we are, deeply concerned about perfect guacamole." It's not that the guacamole doesn't matter. I mean, it's delicious and definitely worth the effort, but I digress. I just find it fascinating how we can simultaneously know we're temporary and yet live as if we have all the time in the world.

Death doesn't care about your Instagram following or your stock portfolio. It doesn't check your resume or care whether you got that big promotion. There's something strangely comforting about that, isn't there? In a world that's obsessed with hierarchy and status, death treats us all exactly the same.

If you really think about it, death is the most effective productivity tool ever invented. Nothing motivates quite like an inevitable ending.

When I catch myself doomscrolling or putting off working on that novel I started 12 years ago, sometimes I remind myself, "This is it. This is the only May 20th, 2025, you're ever getting." Suddenly, watching another dachshund video loses some of its appeal.

But it's not about filling every moment with achievement or purpose either. Sometimes, acknowledging death makes doing absolutely nothing feel perfectly justified too. That afternoon nap in the sun? Maybe that's exactly what this life is for.

Death isn't just about endings. It's a mirror that shows us what really, truly matters. Ask anyone who's had a near-death experience or received a serious diagnosis, and they'll tell you how quickly priorities can clear up.

What if we could maintain that clarity without the terror? What if we could remember we're dying without letting it paralyze us?

The ancient Stoics had a practice called memento mori, "remember we die." Not to be morbid or anything, but to live in a more intentional way.

I've been trying something similar lately. Not obsessing over death, but just acknowledging it as a natural part of the conversation about life. And you know what? My days feel more fulfilling. I say "I love you" more often. I laugh harder at bad jokes. I hug those I love just a little bit longer.

Sometimes I look at my hands and think about how they won't always be here typing out blog posts, cooking delicious meals, or hugging those closest to me. It makes every touch feel more precious in a way.

Maybe our discomfort with death is really about our discomfort with vulnerability and uncertainty. We don't know how to talk about it, so we don't. And in not talking about it, we miss opportunities to live better lives.

What if we normalized casual conversations about death? Not just when someone is dying or after someone has died, but as part of how we think about living well.

I'm working on reframing my relationship with death. I'm trying to see it not as something to fear or ignore, but as a natural companion that makes my journey through life more meaningful by making it finite.

Life isn't valuable despite its end, but because of it. The sunset is beautiful precisely because it doesn't last forever. The conversation means more because we don't have infinite time to talk. The love feels deeper because we know it exists within boundaries.

So here's to death.
Not as the enemy, but as a frame that gives the picture of life its proper proportion and perspective.