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Our most important life skill is the one no one teaches us—how to deal with death.
Everyone is going to die. Some live long lives. Others die early, sometimes tragically. We spend our lives trying to find love, going to school, building careers, traveling, having children, making friends, and a thousand little things we don’t remember doing.
We do many things, but we fail to face death—our own, or that of the people we love.
You could die tomorrow. So could your husband or wife, your best friend, sister, or brother, or your puppy. Children bury their parents. But parents also bury their children. So often we treat death like it’s a surprise—an unexpected guest at a party. We act as if we didn’t know it was coming.
The Stoics warned us against this illusion. Marcus Aurelius wrote:
“You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say, and think.”
Meditations returns to this theme repeatedly. Marcus referenced death more than 100 times. As emperor, he was intimate with loss. Millions perished in the Antonine plague during his reign. Rome was at war for seventeen of his nineteen years as emperor. And he buried seven of his thirteen children.
President, emperor, you or me—death comes for everyone.
The Practice of Remembering
Buddhism teaches that death is not just inevitable, but necessary. To fear it is to suffer twice. The Tibetan Book of the Dead reminds us:
“All who are born are certain to die, but the time of death is uncertain. Knowing this, remain mindful.”
The Buddha echoed the same truth:
“Of all mindfulness meditations, that on death is supreme.”
To recognize that life is short is to live in constant appreciation. Gratitude sharpens life, making it more vibrant, urgent, and hopeful. Meditating on our common mortality lessens the fear of death—or eliminates it.
Those who live with death breathe this sort of meditation daily:
The cancer patient who ends treatment to embrace life on her own terms.
The inmate who finds calm on the night before execution.
The writer Robert Greene referred to this confrontation with mortality as "The Sublime." In The 50th Law, he wrote:
“Knowing our days to be numbered, we have a sense of urgency and mission. We can appreciate life all the more for its impermanence. If we can overcome the fear of death, then there is nothing left to fear.”
This confrontation opens the world to you. Seeing the Sublime makes the ordinary extraordinary. Small moments become immense, and gratitude expands for everything—your loves, your fears, your dreams met, and hopes dashed. You are thankful simply because you lived through it all.
The Dark Ocean
Imagine yourself at the beach, in front of you, a small boat rocking with the tide. You look to the horizon where the blue-grey ocean meets the deep blue of the sky. Beneath you, the depths are dark and cold, the waters frightening.
In Daily Laws, Greene urges us to step into that small boat and row out into the dark ocean. Sometimes the fear never leaves. But life begins when you enter the depths anyway, when you stop letting fear decide how far you’ll go.
To explore the hidden depths of life, you must have the courage to step into that boat and risk being overwhelmed by the immensity of the sea.
We learn life’s most important skill by understanding that death is inevitable. We will die. Stephen Covey urged us to begin with the end in mind. Most of us look backward, regretting choices already made, when we should begin with our death and move back toward today.
Begin with the end in mind. From now until your death, ask yourself:
What do I want to have learned?
In what ways will I have grown?
Which fears will I cast back into the ocean?
What joys do I want to experience?
The First and Final Meditation
Meditating on our mortality enables us to appreciate and fully embrace our lives. It begins with the certainty of death, and with the equal certainty that life is a gift.
When we confront death, we stop wasting time. We stop postponing what matters. We forgive more quickly, love more deeply, and live more honestly.
Dealing with our mortality doesn’t make us darker—it makes us brighter. It strips away pettiness, ego, and fear. It grows our compassion. It sharpens our priorities.
When we remember we are dying, we finally learn how to live.
Thanks for reading. Memento mori.
Love to you and yours,
Michael