I’ve figured it out.

The irony of death is that it teaches you how to live. With the stark realization that life is fleeting, you suddenly find this sort of freedom, the kind that comes with not caring. Not caring what others think, taking a risk, following the desires of your heart. Failure doesn’t seem so daunting when you know you’re not guaranteed tomorrow.

I started the habit of telling the people I love that I do. All of them. And when I’m around them, I try to show them.

This is bigger.

Reasonably, we should try to live our whole life like this.

There it is. The burning question: What would you do if you were unafraid?

Everything. Anything and everything.

My husband committed suicide. The day he died, I thought I did too. But I realize now, I was birthed instead.

When you lose someone in your life, you can bear the burden like a cross, and let it kill you too. Or, maybe, just maybe, you can see it as a birth. It’s an opportunity to create yourself anew. Now that everything is stripped away and gone, who are you? What’s left?

You finally remember who you are. A fighter. Strong. This is who you were meant to be before you listened to someone who said you couldn’t.

 

Relephant Read:

This is Why We are Alive.

 

Author: Ann Marie Matthews

Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Emma Kate/Flickr