What Facing Death Taught Me About Living

We spend so much of our lives avoiding the thought of death, as if ignoring it will keep it away. But what if looking it straight in the eye is exactly what helps us live more fully?

I used to believe I wasn’t afraid of death — until I came face to face with it in my hospice volunteer work. That’s when I realized how mistaken I was. Death was no longer an abstract idea; it became real, very real.

In those early days, I had to ground myself and work through my own fears about mortality. That’s still an ongoing journey. But alongside the fear, I stumbled upon something unexpected — a refreshing, almost rejuvenating outlook on life. It was as if I’d been handed a new lens through which to see the world. I began to notice that fear and happiness can exist side by side.

I started looking at people and situations differently — whether at work or at home. The living, breathing awareness that all of us — my loved ones, coworkers, friends — are slowly moving toward our own ending brought with it an unexpected softness. More compassion. More curiosity. It shifted my interactions. I found myself valuing meaningful connections over small talk and superficiality.

Another quiet shift happened as well: I began to understand the power of presence. Facing the reality of death drew me into the now in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I found myself fully present for whatever was unfolding — whether it was watching a sunset, standing before a mountain, or simply listening to a loved one share their struggles. I wasn’t rushing to fix, solve, or move on. I was simply there. And in that presence, there was a deep, almost indescribable satisfaction.

Seeing my patients physically and mentally change week after week has also changed my relationship with my own mind and body. One day, my mind will slow down; my body will wrinkle and weaken. That’s inevitable. But right now, they work together seamlessly — helping me move, think, love, and create — and I no longer take that for granted. I’m fascinated by how each part of me quietly does its work, most of it on autopilot.

So many blessings in life go unnoticed. Being close to death has made me savor everything — from the smallest joys to the biggest moments. The taste of food shared with loved ones. The ability to exercise. Long, unhurried walks. The problems that used to crowd my mind — at work or at home — seem to dissolve after spending an afternoon with a patient. I often find myself wondering, Really? Was I truly worried about this?

I’m not suggesting we bypass our struggles. Life still presents challenges. But now, I meet them from a different place. My perspective has widened. All experiences, small or big, have become deeply meaningful.

So many of us are searching for the purpose of life. We want to live intentionally, to leave with no regrets. When I began this path, I thought I was here to help others. It didn’t take long to realize they were helping me.

Every patient has left an imprint. One taught me strength and resilience. Another, patience and kindness. Another, acceptance and surrender. These lessons are priceless. I carry them with me every day.

Perhaps the purpose of life isn’t something we find “out there” at all. Maybe it’s to live these values — with grace, with compassion — and to be gentle with ourselves along the way.