Living in the Light of Death

Death as a teacher

Photo by Fey Marin on Unsplash

It was unexpected. As some of you already know, a colleague I knew from the office (whom I'd even walked with the week he passed away) passed away suddenly. No long illness or announcement; he was simply gone. It felt as if someone had ripped a page out of a book I hadn't finished yet.

His passing affected me deeply. I know, people die every day. Everywhere. We scroll through the world news, hear about an accident, an illness, a war. And we carry on. But when it hits close to home, with someone you just spoke to, whose voice you know, their jokes, their way of looking at things, then death suddenly hits very close.

It makes me think a lot about both my own life and my future death. The fact that my colleague's passing was so abrupt has significantly emphasized the value of life. I'd been aware for years that life is unpredictable, not only in what happens but also in how it ends, but even more so now.

And honestly, that confused me. Not in a dramatic way or anything like that; I didn't panic, make a bucket list, or suddenly completely change my life. But it did grate. As if a noise had disappeared and I suddenly saw things more clearly. How often I act on autopilot, for example. Or what I think I'll find at the end of all that striving. Especially how I treat my children.

It's bizarre how death, which I always saw as the end of the story, suddenly felt like an interruption in my own story. A pause in which I didn't write any new sentences for a moment, but looked at the page I'd left off and wondered: do I want to continue writing like this?

Not everything needs to be different, but perhaps everything could be more conscious.

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What affected me most after his death wasn't that life ends at some point, but how I saw myself. As if my colleague's death were a mirror in front of me that I couldn't avoid. And what I saw there wasn't just grief or sadness. I saw, above all, doubt. About myself.

Am I the father I want to be? The man I wanted to be? Will the people I love remember me the way I'd like them to remember me?

These weren't questions I answered rationally. They came as a kind of feeling that slowly crept into my days. Little moments where I suddenly thought: Why on earth am I doing this? Why did I react this way? Why wasn't I paying attention again? And I noticed that I actually judge myself quite a bit. The feeling of not being good enough prevails.

That's what death exposed in me. Not just a fear of the end, but also the fear that I'm not living my life well enough. That I'm falling short. And it's strange, by the way, that I'm suddenly afraid of death, while I never feared it before.

The confronting thing is: rationally, I know I'm doing my best, but not enough. Or that I don't think my best is good enough. I find my life quite difficult too. The busy life of having children and working full-time with both parents. Always that feeling of being behind, you know? The laundry is NEVER done, my job with piles of work that never seems to end, the kids never get enough attention, the house is never tidy, barely time to cook properly, and I could go on and on.

But yes, maybe that's the real work: not getting everything in order, but learning to be present with the idea that you're not enough (note: I say "idea" - not a fact) and then not running away from it. My colleague's death opened that door. Painful. But also very necessary.

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The idea that I'm not enough in all my roles is something I dealt with in a certain way. You know, trying harder, being more present, showing more love, trying to gain more control despite knowing deep down that I don't have it. But since my colleague's death, that feels different. As if I can't manage with "more" anymore.

What if this is it? What if I never become who I truly want to be? What if I always remain a man with rough edges, with moments of impatience, a volatile temper, and days when I can hear but not listen?

Before I wrote this piece, it felt hopeless. As if I had seriously condemned myself to falling short. But after thinking about it some more, I hear a voice deep inside me saying, "Maybe you are already enough, even if you don't do everything right."

That's not an excuse to do nothing. No. On the contrary. It makes me want to live more fully. Not because I have to be perfect, but because I simply want to "be." Present. Here. Not concerned with how I come across, or whether I fail or succeed, but truly focused on the moment. With my children. With my loved ones. With myself.

Death confronts you with the fact that you don't get a second chance to live NOW. But it doesn't force you to radically change everything. It's time for simplicity: less in your head, more in your body. Less proof, more being. Not living because you're afraid of dying. But living because you feel alive. With everything you are, including your doubts, your mistakes, and whatever else.

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