For most of my life, I believed that with enough effort, understanding, and optimization, I could outmaneuver the chaos of existence. That if I worked hard enough, loved deeply enough, thought sharply enough—I could buffer myself and my family from unnecessary suffering. Then I got sick.
Hyperthyroidism hit me like a freight train. I experienced a kind of illness I had never known before—sleepless nights paired with crushing fatigue, a kind of paradox where the body refuses to rest but lacks the energy to function. Simple acts, like walking to the bathroom, felt like dragging the weight of an elephant. My muscles ached. My chest tightened. I felt short of breath just standing still. My body was in pain, but worse, I felt my sense of “self” beginning to unravel—like the foundation of who I was had become untrustworthy, unstable.
It wasn’t just discomfort. It was a glimpse into dying. Not death as an idea—but death as a process. The slow wearing away of the things that make you feel like you.
And what scared me most wasn’t the final moment. It was this: the long, helpless unraveling of the self—while still being alive to feel it. That realization stayed with me. And it didn’t leave quietly. It rewired something in me.
Death Is Not a Problem to Solve
I used to believe that the right mindset or preparation could help me sidestep the fear of death. But I’ve come to see: there is no way around this. There is only through. There’s no “solving” mortality. But there is something else—something deeper.
“Death is inevitable. Suffering is possible. But fear is not mandatory.”
This is the principle I live by now. Fear often arises not from the facts—but from our resistance to them. When I tried to control everything—my health, my thoughts, my future—I was consumed by fear. But when I softened into the truth of what was happening, I found something I hadn’t expected: grace.
This isn’t about giving up. It’s about giving in—to the moment, to the process, to the fact that life was never about control in the first place.
How This Shapes My Life Now
Since then, I’ve stopped living as if legacy depends on what I build. I’ve started living as if presence is the real legacy.
My children won’t remember whether I solved every problem. They’ll remember how I showed up when things couldn’t be solved.
- If I can meet fear with presence, they’ll know fear doesn’t have to control them.
- If I can suffer without abandoning myself, they’ll know that peace doesn’t mean pain is absent—it means resistance is.
- If I can walk into the unknown without needing to conquer it, they’ll know that love can exist inside mystery.
Yes, I still optimize. Yes, I still build. But I don’t do it to escape death anymore. I do it as an expression of love, despite death.
What It Means for My End
When the end comes—whether slowly or suddenly—I no longer want to fight it as an enemy. I want to meet it like a companion I’ve spent years learning to understand.
I’ve written down my thoughts, my fears, my philosophy—not just for myself, but for my family. So they’ll know how I saw life. So they’ll know that even in the face of loss, there was clarity. There was grace. There was love.
I don’t want to be remembered for resisting death. I want to be remembered for embracing life, even when it was falling apart.
If You’ve Felt This Too
If you’ve ever suffered and thought, “Is this what dying feels like?” If you’ve ever feared the slow loss of your body, your mind, your sense of self—If you’ve ever stood at the edge of your own vitality and seen the void blinking back—you’re not alone.
The fear you carry isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign that you’re awake.
But you don’t have to let that fear run your life. You can walk with it. Learn from it. Even let it soften you.
Because the paradox is this: the more you accept death, the more fully you live. The more you release control, the more clearly you see. The more you sit with pain, the more space you make for love.
And that, strangely enough, is how we begin to really live.
