It’s a strange and heartbreaking truth that life isn’t infinite. With the minds we’ve been given—so complex, so curious—it’s easy to feel betrayed by nature or God. Why would something so beautiful be made so temporary? Even the most brilliant among us must wrestle with this question, because the uncertainty of life creates a foundation for so many of our fears and anxieties.
There are countless ways to die—disease, violence, accidents, aging. But in the moment of death, all of that becomes irrelevant. From the outside, it might matter how someone died, but for the person themselves, it's just lights out. What’s left behind is the pain and confusion of those who remain—the impossible task of reimagining the world without someone we love. Their absence becomes permanent. They remain only in memory. And that stirs our own fear: one day, this will happen to me, too.
When I think of my aging parents, sadness washes over me. It’s their turn now, and I don’t want them to suffer or be afraid. I wonder: Was I a good enough son? Did I do right by them? The truth is, I probably caused pain in my rebellion. But I also know they weren’t perfect either. My resistance wasn’t about disrespect—it was about becoming myself, a self they helped build. And now, facing their mortality, I feel the looming severance of a bond I’ve always counted on.
The physical body disappears. The person we knew no longer walks the Earth. And even if we believe in an afterlife or spiritual continuation, we still struggle with the fact that we won't see them again in the form we knew. The mind resists that reality. It aches for something to hold on to.
The only honest way to cope with death is to grieve. To cry. To collapse. To let your body do what it needs to do. Let the snot and the tears pour out. Let the grief scream through your throat, into a pillow, into the Earth. Only after that release can we return to the breath, to the moment, to the ordinary beauty of life—like the way children play, unaware of our private loss, or the way the sun still rises despite everything that’s changed.
In some religious traditions, like Judaism, there are structured mourning rituals: sitting Shiva for seven days, observing a year of remembrance. I don’t follow all the customs, but I find truth in the psychological wisdom of these practices. They honor grief as necessary, not something to suppress.
Grief will never fully go away, but we do recover. We keep moving forward in the arrow of time, toward our own death—and that’s okay. Watching others die reminds us to live better. It reminds us to let go of pettiness and selfishness, and to embrace life while we still can. We only get so many sunrises. Let’s not miss them all.
Why Does Death Exist?
Maybe nature simply couldn’t figure out a way around death. Or maybe, as some spiritual traditions say, there is no birth and no death—just transformation. That’s an idea you could meditate on for 50 years.
Still, right now, it’s hard to make sense of. Because objectively, when something alive disappears, it’s gone. A gazelle eaten by a lion no longer exists as the creature it was. It doesn’t get to raise its young, or shape the world anymore. That loss is real. That’s what we grieve—not just the person, but the absence of their presence, their influence, their heartbeat.
Stories of reincarnation or eternal life may be comforting, but they are, at best, unprovable. Sometimes, those stories are just ways to avoid facing the terrifying truth. And yet, there is beauty in facing the truth. Because when we face it with courage, we unlock something new: resilience.
How We Live Through Loss
We don’t survive loss through denial. We survive by facing it. Let grief mold you. Let it change you into someone more empathetic, more compassionate, less selfish. Someone who contributes not just to their family, but to the greater whole of life.
In grief, we are invited to examine our place in the world. What will we give instead of what we can take? What will we leave behind?
When a romantic relationship ends, the grief can mirror the death of a loved one. It’s a death of connection, of shared meaning. And if we weren’t taught how to grieve, we must teach ourselves. Learn to breathe into the pain. Ask yourself: What is this emotion? What is its message?
Pain without purpose can feel unbearable. But if we assign meaning to it—if we allow it to guide us into growth—it becomes sacred. Our recovery becomes a blueprint for others. And when we share that knowledge, we influence more than we know.
Even one kind action, one moment of shared wisdom, can ripple through others in ways we’ll never see. That gives the pain a small sense of purpose. And sometimes, that’s enough to carry us through.
A Practice of Perspective
Try to look at the world through a slightly less negative lens. Not for the sake of denial, but for the sake of balance. In every tragedy, there are acts of courage. In every war, someone chooses peace. In every loss, there is a seed of growth.
Let grief awaken you, not destroy you. Let it make you stronger, more kind, more devoted to ending suffering—yours and others’. That is how we honor those we’ve lost: by becoming better people in their name.
To make this writing truly useful, let me suggest something simple yet powerful: when you're in pain, that is the moment to practice slow, deep breathing. Yes—that breath talk again. It might feel like the last thing you want to think about right now. Meditation, yoga, mindfulness—they can seem irrelevant when you're overwhelmed by grief or fear. But this is exactly what we were training for. All those practices were rehearsals for this: the moment when staying grounded matters most.
When we breathe shallowly, our anxiety simmers just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt. But deep, conscious breathing floods the brain with oxygen and helps us stay relaxed, stay aware, and stay in our highest mind. There’s never been a more important time to slow down, breathe deeply, and remain as present as possible.
Try not to resist what you’re feeling. Try not to change it. I like to visualize myself as a small body orbiting a sphere—just observing from different angles. Right now, I’m viewing it from the angle of pain and fear. I don’t yet know how this angle is shaping my perspective, but I’ll stay with it. I’ll try to relax my mind, quiet the chatter, and save the analysis for later.
For now, I breathe—deep and slow. I stay present, even if it’s uncomfortable, because this is where life is happening.