At the end of 2017, someone close to me asked:
What is your biggest fear in life right now?
At first I was like, “Dang. I don’t know. Hmmm.”
The question made me uncomfortable. I hid my defensiveness, and secretly judged the question pointless. But I stayed with it.
Behind my resisting, my mind was searching for a “right” answer or an “interesting” response, and not necessarily, the truth.
So I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.
Something came up that I haven’t expressed out loud to anyone.
I choked up, and told my friend, through a giant lump in my throat and hot tears flowing like lava out of my eyes, that I was afraid of death — of losing someone close to me.
This was unexpected, overwhelming, and so very real to me in that moment, and it didn’t matter why. I was diving in…
I lost the man who had lovingly fathered me (my grandfather) when I nine years old, and the woman who had mothered me (my grandmother) just 5 years later, and since then, I haven’t expressed my fear of losing someone else — to ANYONE.
I sobbed and felt the biggest relief. What came in the days after was even more lightness, and a smidgen of acceptance that death would come again.
It felt empowering, if even in the slightest, to accept this natural aspect of being human, to courageously turn toward the emotional scar on my heart, and, more than anything, to acknowledge the preciousness of the time I have left here.
I realised that I hadn’t whole-heartedly done any of these things until that very confession, due to: fear and unworthiness…
The fear of death’s oceanic sadness, mystery + unknown, and the self-limiting belief that I didn’t deserve to be empowered by the full expression + experience of Life.
I ended last year giving myself permission to feel how I’ve always felt, but pushed it so far away — that every day is an absolute gift, that life is brief and so very precious — and that every single breath counts.
Every single breath, baby.