This is probably going to be the hardest of these 31 articles. Firstly I, like every other person living on this planet, don’t know the first thing about what it’s like to die and stay dead – how can anyone explain the process of why we fear death when we don’t actually know what the process of dying is like?

The other reason why the fear of death is so hard for me to write about is simple.

I am not afraid of dying.

It’s one of those things that has always felt as natural as the air I breathe. I know that for many people the concept of death carries this all-encompassing terror, a shiver of dread that roots deep in their bones and threads into their thoughts at the oddest moments. For some it’s an anxious flutter as they lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. For others it hits more suddenly: a passing car swerves too close or a story in the news reminds them how abruptly and without reason life can end.

There’s a shadow of something heavy and ominous that seems to rise up when people think about their own death. But for me, it’s different.

When I think about death, I think of it as a simple endpoint. It’s like the period at the end of a sentence. No more, no less. The fact that the sentence ends doesn’t take away from what came before it; it doesn’t cancel out the substance of what’s already been written. In the same way, my eventual death doesn’t take away from my life. It’s a part of life. When I go to sleep each night, I never have a guarantee that I’ll wake up, but I close my eyes peacefully, trusting that whether I wake or not, the world will go on and so will I—either in memory or in whatever mysterious oblivion follows life. I feel connected to that simplicity, as if death is just part of a natural rhythm that I don’t need to struggle against.

Of course, I understand why many people have a fear of death. The unknown is daunting for nearly everyone. Humans are wired to survive, to keep going, to seek purpose. It’s no wonder that the idea of an end point—of ceasing to be—can be terrifying. People ask themselves where they’ll go or if there’s any part of themselves that will linger. They worry about what they’ll leave behind, who they’ll leave behind. The end of consciousness, the end of the senses, of memories and stories, is a powerful concept to grapple with. And yet, to me, there’s a beauty in accepting that life is brief. My life will someday end, and that simple acceptance makes me value the moments I have even more.

Sometimes I think that the fear of death is an extension of our fear of the unknown, of letting go, of stepping into a realm where we lose control. But if we look around, so much of life involves letting go. Think about it: we don’t know what tomorrow holds. We don’t control the world or the people around us or the forces of nature. And yet, we live each day, accepting these uncertainties in the background.

In a way, death is like the ultimate unknown. It’s a moment of surrender to something far bigger than ourselves, and for some reason, that surrender has always felt freeing to me rather than frightening.

Some people are afraid of losing themselves, of their identity fading away into nothingness. It’s understandable; we spend so much time defining ourselves, building our lives, finding connections, carving out places for ourselves. We form attachments to people and ideas, to memories and goals. And the thought of all of that disappearing can feel overwhelmingly empty.

But when I think of my own identity, I don’t see it as something eternal or fixed. I see it as part of a continuous flow. Who I am now is shaped by who I was before, just as who I was before was shaped by countless experiences. I am connected to those who came before me, and, in the future, to those who will remember me. It’s all transient, but somehow that transience feels natural rather than sad. If I let go of my identity, it’s not a loss to me, because it’s already part of something much larger.

People sometimes ask me, “Aren’t you afraid of not existing?”

I find the question puzzling. Before I was born, I didn’t exist, and that didn’t bother me. I wasn’t conscious; I wasn’t yearning to be here, wasn’t suffering from my own absence. Why would I be afraid of returning to that state? Whatever comes after this life—whether it’s nothingness or some form of continuation—is beyond my understanding. But the thought of not existing doesn’t feel frightening to me. It just feels like a natural state that I once was in and will return to again. I think of it as a deep, timeless sleep, and in that image, there is nothing to fear.

Some people fear the idea of dying itself—the process, the potential for pain, the finality of it. I understand that too, because physical pain is something very real, something tangible. But the fear of death isn’t really about the pain, is it? Pain is something that exists here, in life. When you’re dead, the pain is over; it’s not like it follows you. Pain and death are separate things, and once you’re gone, the pain stops being relevant. The process of dying, the transition, might be uncomfortable or even scary. But in the end, it’s just a passage, like walking through a doorway. And when you’re through that door, whatever discomfort there was has no more hold on you.

Another part of it is the way people fear leaving others behind, leaving tasks unfinished, missing out on things they wanted to do. They worry about the impact their death will have on others or about regrets. But I think of it this way: life is always in motion, and nothing is ever truly complete. Every day is a chance to make a mark, to contribute, to share love, to pursue goals, but we don’t get to control the timeline. None of us knows how long we have, and there’s no promise that we’ll get to tie up every loose end before we go.

Rather than being afraid of that, I see it as motivation. If I don’t know when my last day will come, why waste time worrying about it? Instead, I focus on being present in the days I do have. I try to focus on being as complete as I can be in the present moment.

Some people find meaning in the belief that there’s something beyond this life, a promise of heaven or reincarnation or some form of continuation. I don’t know if there’s an afterlife, but I don’t think I need one in order to find meaning in my life. The fact that my time here is limited makes it valuable. A sunset doesn’t last forever, but that doesn’t make it any less beautiful. In fact, its beauty is in its transience, its fleeting nature. If life were endless, I’m not sure it would feel as rich or as urgent.

So I take death as a reminder to live well, to cherish the moments I have and to accept that I won’t get to experience everything. That’s okay. I don’t need to experience everything to have lived a full life. I also appreciate, especially during the bad times, that one day it will all end.

Ultimately, the lack of fear I feel around death allows me to embrace life more fully. I know that one day, I will no longer be here. And on that day, the world will go on. People will laugh and cry, seasons will turn, life will continue. I will be a memory maybe for some, maybe a story for others. And even that will fade in time.

But that doesn’t make my life any less valuable. I don’t need to be eternal to have mattered. The people I love, the things I create, the moments I live—all of these are real, even if they’re temporary.

So when I think about death, I don’t feel fear. I feel gratitude. Gratitude for the days I’ve had, for the experiences I’ve known, for the simple, brief, incredible chance to be alive. And when my time comes, I’ll step into that final unknown with the same curiosity I brought to each day in life. It won’t be an end; it will just be a return to a quiet state I came from. I’m not afraid, because I know that death is not the opposite of life. It’s simply part of it.

Anyway, probably not the best thing I’ve ever written but if you made it this far, thanks for sticking with me. I think we probably all learnt something about who we are somewhere amongst these 31 articles, didn’t we?. One of them may have even helped someone understand their personal fear a little better, who knows?

Right… See you tomorrow for the finale? 🎃Bring snacks.. 🙂