Lessons from Death and Awakening to an Authentic Life

“Life doesn’t owe us anything. We only owe ourselves, to make the most of the life we are living, of the time we have left, and to live in gratitude.” ~Bronnie Ware

Today, I’d like to tell a story about death.

It’s a word that tends to shift the energy in a room, isn’t it? People tense up, lean back, or grow silent. Death is often seen as morbid, something to avoid or fear. But I’ve come to see it differently. The more we speak about death with openness and reverence, the less heavy and frightening it feels.

My earliest experiences of death were when my grandparents passed away. I remember the moment my parents told us about one of my grandfather’s deaths. The atmosphere was so tense, so thick with unspoken grief. I was five or six and wanted to laugh. It wasn’t disrespect or indifference—I now realize it was my body’s way of releasing the unbearable tension in the room.

But the most profound experience of death came when my mother passed away. I was twenty-six. Almost twenty years ago. She had cancer.

I spent long, quiet days with her in that stark, clinical hospital room. I vividly remember the stairs—climbing them one at a time, deliberately slow, as if dragging my feet might delay the inevitable. Each step felt heavy, as though I could somehow resist the truth waiting on that floor.

I remember not knowing what to say or do, especially as she told me, “It’s hard.”

I think she held back her tears for my sake, just as I held back mine for hers.

Part of us denied the truth. Part of us clung to hope. And part of us knew the inevitable was coming.

Looking back, I wish we had cried together. I wish we had allowed ourselves to fully feel the grief, the sadness, the heaviness of it all. Instead, we put on brave faces, trying to protect each other. But what were we protecting? We were both struggling.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have approached her final days differently. I would have offered her a soft space to breathe, to release, to let go of the grasping. I would have guided her into that transition with love, reminding her she was returning to the beautiful energy of the universe, back to the souls she loved.

I would have told her I loved her. Many times over those last few weeks together.

I carried the weight of guilt for years, particularly over not being with her in the exact moment she passed. She transitioned in the middle of the night while my sister and I were sleeping at home.

But now, I choose to believe she wasn’t alone. Perhaps she was supported by the unseen forces in the soul field, her guides, and her loved ones on the other side. No one knows what happens after we die, but I find this thought comforting.

I’ve come to believe we need to talk about death—not to dwell on it but to embrace its truth. Death is part of life. It’s a cycle—a beginning, a middle, and an end.

When I returned to Florida after her passing, I was in shock. Everything felt different, small compared to the immensity of what I had just experienced. Parties and drinking no longer appealed to me. My relationship felt empty, and I couldn’t even remember why I was in it. My job felt meaningless.

Death had brought to my attention a way deeper understanding of impermanence, driving a quiet urgency to reevaluate my life. Not a frantic urgency but a deep realization that life is short. Life is precious. That realization was life-affirming.

Each breath matters. Each moment matters. It made me ask:

• Where am I spending my energy?
• With whom?
• What am I serving?
• What am I contributing to this world?

This questioning was the beginning of my expansion. It wasn’t linear—there were steps forward and plenty backward—but it set me on a path toward alignment with my evolving truth.

I believe we must live with an awareness of death. Not just intellectually but deeply, in our bones. When we truly embody the knowledge that we will die—perhaps even today—it reshapes how we live.

Buddhist teachings encourage meditating on death, imagining one’s own passing. It’s not morbid; it’s clarifying. If you knew you might die today, how would you live?

In The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, Bronnie Ware shares wisdom from her years as a palliative care nurse. These are the most common regrets she heard:

1. “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

2. “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.”

3. “I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.”

4. “I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.”

5. “I wish I had let myself be happier.”

These resonate deeply with me. When my mother passed, I unknowingly began a journey to align my life with these truths. I’ll admit I’m still working on the five of them. Life has a way of distracting us from what matters most.

But this is my reminder to myself—and to you—as we near the end of the year:

Slow down. Take a step back. Reflect on how far you’ve come and where you want to go next.

My wish for you is to reflect on this. Let the thought of your mortality infuse your life with intention—not pressure, but clarity. Maybe you’ll realize that what matters most is spending time with loved ones. Maybe it’s pursuing a dream, letting go of a grudge, or simply savoring the gift of being alive.

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