I Just Want To Go Quietly

I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately.

It started with a photo my sister shared — my late father at five years old, held by my grandfather. In that same frame were my grandmother and my aunts. Seven people, frozen in time. And then it hit me: four of them are already gone.

Looking at that picture, I couldn’t stop wondering what that five-year-old boy thought his future would be like. What dreams he had. What kind of life he imagined for himself. And naturally, the question turned inward — what about mine?

There’s something unsettling about realising how short life actually is. One moment you’re a child being held by your parents, and the next you’re a memory in someone else’s phone gallery. We grow up thinking time moves slowly, but one day you blink and realise decades have passed.

I won’t pretend these thoughts come from a dark, dramatic place. They come from exhaustion. From witnessing loss. From carrying anxiety and depression quietly and trying to function anyway. When life feels heavy, it’s easy to start romanticising the idea of simply… stopping. Not out of a desire to disappear, but out of wanting peace.

I’ve caught myself thinking about health, illness, and ageing — and how afraid I am of becoming a burden. Of needing too much. Of taking up space when I no longer feel useful. These are uncomfortable thoughts, but they’re honest ones. And maybe honesty is where healing starts.

Still, sitting with mortality has also taught me something important: thinking about death has made me more aware of life. Of how fragile, fleeting, and strangely precious it all is. Every conversation. Every laugh. Every ordinary day we survive without realising it might be someone else’s last.

I don’t have answers. I don’t suddenly feel fearless or enlightened. I’m still figuring things out, still learning how to be kinder to myself, still pushing through days that feel heavier than others. But I know this — choosing to stay, choosing to continue, even when it’s hard, is an act of quiet courage.

Maybe the goal isn’t to be unafraid of death. Maybe the goal is to live gently despite knowing it exists.

And for now, that’s enough for me.