The Art of Living

I read this year that “one learns the art of dying by learning the art of living, becoming master of the present moment.”

At first, it felt like an interesting thought. But then it became something else.

Something I started living.

We are all on death row. That’s not dramatic—it’s just truth. The fact that we don’t know when our time will come should terrify us into living more fully, yet most of us avoid thinking about it altogether.

I used to, too.

But this year, I leaned in—not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

I wanted to understand death. I wanted to understand grief—not just my own, but the grief that connects all of us. I expanded my knowledge through books, through medicine journeys, through conversations with mentors and myself. I sat with the weight of impermanence and, in doing so, I discovered something I never expected:

When we face death, we receive the greatest gift of life.

We learn to love more deeply.
We learn to live more presently.
We become infinitely more compassionate.

And not in a cliché way.

I mean that we love so deeply that we see nothing but it.
We live so wildly in the present moment that we can’t look past it.
We feel everything—fully, honestly, and without hesitation.

Because what else is there?

What else exists beyond right now?

During a plant medicine journey this year, I was brought face to face with death. But not in the way I expected.

This ceremony wasn’t about me resisting grief, or even coming to terms with it. It felt like I already had.

Every song that played felt like a funeral procession—but not a sad one. It wasn’t grief in the way we fear it. It was honorable. Respectful. Sacred.

There was mourning, yes. But it was the most natural mourning I had ever felt. The kind that didn’t feel heavy, but instead felt…right.

Because it is right.

Because death, when we stop resisting it, is not tragic. It’s natural.

And when it’s natural, we don’t just grieve—we celebrate.
We honor those who have passed.
We cherish the time we had with them.
We don’t look away from the reality of death—we sit with it, fully present.

And that presence? That’s what allows us to live.

Grief As An Old Friend

I think grief has always felt like an old friend to me.

Losing my dad at 21 shattered me, but it also shaped me. I was forced to face death earlier than most. And because I allowed myself to sit with my grief instead of running from it, I have been able to carry it in a way that feels gentle.

Now, 11 years later, I find myself in a new place.

More friends, more family, even strangers around me are just now experiencing the kind of loss I experienced a decade ago. And I see them exactly where I once was—staring at this unmovable truth, wondering how the hell they’re supposed to carry it.

I know that weight.
I know the fear.
I know how easy it is to believe that it will swallow you whole.

And I also know that it won’t.

Because I’ve walked this path before, I want to show up for my loved ones in a way that makes them feel safe. I want to be a soft place to land. I want them to know that what they’re feeling is normal. That there is no “wrong” way to grieve. That, in time, their grief will change shape, just like mine has.

But here’s something else I’ve had to learn:

I can’t take their grief away from them.

Even though I know they’ll get through it.
Even though I know the weight will become lighter.
Even though I know that death is not the end, just a transition.

Because if I took their grief from them, I’d be robbing them of the same lessons that have brought me here.

Everyone has to face death in their own way.

Everyone has to let it in—because once they do, they will understand what I now understand:

Death Is Not the Opposite of Life. It Is What Makes Life Sacred.

The reason I live fully is because I know that none of this is permanent.

I know that nothing lasts—not joy, not sorrow, not even us.

But instead of that feeling heavy, it feels freeing.

Because that means every moment is a gift. That means nothing should be wasted—not our love, not our presence, not our capacity to be here.

If you fear death, ask yourself this:

Are you truly living?

Are you present in your life, or just going through the motions?
Are you telling the people you love how much they mean to you?
Are you allowing yourself to feel everything, or are you resisting the truth of what it means to be human?

Because if we really let ourselves live—fully, honestly, deeply—then we will not fear death.

We will meet it like an old friend.

Because to learn how to die is to learn how to live.

And this year, I did a hell of a lot of living.

Thank you, Ram Dass.