The last month, I’ve been thinking about mortality. This blog post is an attempt to reflect on those thoughts and, in doing so, lighten their weight, making it easier for me to approach the subject in the future.

As with any other blog post, I write this for myself, first and foremost. Putting my thoughts on a page helps me reflect and understand better. As the subject of this blog post is particularly sensitive (at least to me), I feel compelled to start with this disclaimer.

Faith

I recall the shift. It happened sometime in my early teenage years. Before then, I was religious. Christianity gave me a warm answer to a cold question: what happens when we die?

Religion was not an overwhelming part of my childhood, but it was present. I remember a small blue Bible for children that I’ve read through (possibly multiple times). I remember going to church. I remember religious holidays, especially at my grandmother’s house.

There was comfort in faith. You live, you die, you meet God. Death wasn’t scary. It wasn’t a thing to think deeply about.

Losing my religion was likely affected by many things going on in my life. No one sat me down and made a compelling case; it was probably a series of small moments that coalesced - in school, with friends, at chess club.

I recall the days after I lost my religion. I distinctly remember taking a warm bath and crying for a long time. The deeper I thought about it, the more religion felt artificial. Not in a dismissive way. In a terrifying way. Because if it was artificial, then there wasn’t someone listening. There wasn’t someone waiting. That meant death might be final.

That realization struck with the kind of force that only teenage angst can carry. Everything around me still looked the same, but something had snapped inside. I was hit by the idea that this life might be all there is. I recall trying to imagine the darkness of not existing.

My family did not have an immediate chance to react to my change. I kept it to myself, continuing to engage in religious events and traditions. I only became outwardly atheistic several years later.

Fury

In my later teenage years and early adulthood, I went through a phase of righteous anger. Looking back, it was definitely partly driven by my earlier experience and the pain I felt.

I read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins, as well as a couple of similar books. I learned the word “atheist” and started to identify as such. I watched the movie Jesus Camp and got outraged at religious indoctrination.

For a year or two, I was annoyingly fierce in my atheism. I wanted debates. I wanted arguments. I wanted the falsehoods to stop, probably because I felt like I had been lied to. I still remember the clarity and intensity of that feeling.

I’ve since mellowed. I now recognize that my anger probably closed more doors than it opened. I still identify as an atheist, but I don’t feel like I have to convince anyone else.

Risk

This experience with faith, among other things, led me to be very cognizant of my mortality.

As an example, I have acrophobia - I’m afraid of heights. This phobia affects me a lot less in situations where it would be challenging to fall. I’m unsure how others experience it, but when I am somewhere high, I often get an image in my head of my falling to my death. Sometimes, that image is of me choosing to jump to my death, leading me to take a step away from the ledge. These involuntary thoughts are disturbing not just because they’re vivid, but because they momentarily make me feel as if my mind could betray me.

One of the most intense experiences I’ve ever had was riding a hot air balloon with my now-wife for several hours. I’m now unsure why I agreed to it, but I was anxious the whole time. The pleasure of landing was only somewhat diminished by a nearby swamp and a bunch of mosquito bites that followed. Just recalling the experience now as I write this sentence sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine.

(on the other hand, my wife had a pleasant time throughout)

I’m generally quite risk-averse. While some say ‘YOLO’ (you only live once) as a way to signal the need to try new things, for me, it carries a different meaning. YOLO means savouring life and not taking stupid risks. None of the extreme sports - climbing, jumping, diving, gliding, or mountaineering - is of any interest to me.

Now

I don’t have to be somewhere elevated to be reminded of my mortality. It can also happen in silent moments. There were instances when I got teary-eyed in blissful moments with my wife, after being hit with the realization that someday this would be no more.

Over the past month, the topic of mortality has kept resurfacing. The book More Everything Forever was one of the triggers. Among other topics, it discussed attempts to escape mortality and transcend human limits. Mostly, by those in tech. Mostly delusionally, I think. Mostly, to the detriment of addressing real and pressing problems such as climate change and wealth inequality.

(though, of course, I understand why people are drawn to the fantasy of immortality)

Another trigger for my thoughts on mortality is my son. He’s five months old now. Watching him is a joy. I’m struck by how much life he has ahead of him. I become even more aware that my path is much more finite. I’m older now than my dad, who died two years ago, was when I was born.

I don’t want to leave. That’s the hard truth. I don’t want there to be a time when I am no longer. Thinking deeply about the moment when I’ll cease to exist is intensely painful. Even writing this is painful, but maybe writing will help.

Positive

All of this is affected by the fact that I’m genuinely happy and fulfilled in life. I have a loving family, meaningful work, the luxury of learning and experiencing new things, and very few things to truly worry about. I’m lucky. Absurdly lucky, even, to be able to write that. If I weren’t as fortunate, I might not cling to life as much as I do.

There is one positive I got from all this thinking about mortality. It underscored the value of life.

I helped bring life into the world. Every time I look at my son, I understand how staggering the gift of life is. Not metaphorically. Literally. Life is fragile and fleeting, and that’s precisely why it’s so valuable. Each moment is a miracle; each interaction is a chance to add meaning to our limited time.

(“Helped bring” is exactly right, as my wife did the heavy lifting.)

I can’t pretend I’m at peace with mortality. I’m now even more aware of its weight and the meaning it gives to every moment. Perhaps reflecting on mortality won’t eliminate my fear, but it may eventually help transform that fear into gratitude, making each moment count. We die. Which is precisely why living matters.