If life is uncertain and death is certain, how will you choose to live your remaining days?

We are not meant to live forever, but we are meant to live well.

By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden

The Stillness of the Stone

On a cloudy afternoon, you find yourself walking through a graveyard. The gravel crunches under your feet, the wind stirs dry leaves across the stones, and names stare back from moss-covered slabs — each name a life once bursting with breath, laughter, dreams, and struggle.

Here lies someone who died at twenty, just months after celebrating their engagement. A few feet away, a mother who passed in her forties, leaving behind three children. A student who had just started university, a retired man who was planning to travel the world with his wife. All their plans, dreams, fears, and routines ended here. Abruptly. Quietly.

And yet, outside this place of truth, we live as if death is an exception, not a guarantee. We postpone joy. We delay healing. We forget how fragile we are.

To reckon with mortality — through graveyard visits, end-of-life conversations, or the difficult topic of voluntary euthanasia — is not morbid. It is one of the most deeply human things we can do. And perhaps, one of the most liberating.

The Graveyard as a Mirror

Graveyards do not lie. They do not flatter or exaggerate. They present the undeniable truth: everyone dies. But in that truth, there is a strange, unexpected gift — the chance to live better.

Take the story of a 33-year-old woman — let’s call her Ayesha — who had just started her own bakery business, finally pursuing her dream after years of working jobs she didn’t love. She had plans to expand, to open a second shop, to hire a small team. And then, within three months of her diagnosis with aggressive pancreatic cancer, she was gone. The walls of her shop still had her notes on recipe experiments when her brother had to pack up her belongings.

Or consider a young man — let’s call him Faraz — who had just received his acceptance to a prestigious PhD program abroad. On a morning jog, he collapsed from an undiagnosed heart condition. He never got to book his flight.

When you stand in a graveyard, you notice something peculiar: the dates. Some lived 90 years, others barely 9. The unpredictability shakes something inside you. You stop taking time for granted. You start asking, ‘What really matters?’ You think about whether the grudges, the social media drama, the late nights at the office, the arguments over nothing, were ever worth it.

Graveyards teach us that our legacy will not be our possessions but our presence. Not our resumes but our relationships.

Voluntary Euthanasia: Compassion and Complexity

And then there are those who know the end is coming — not suddenly, but slowly and painfully. They face not just mortality, but unbearable suffering. For them, the question is not whether death will come, but how.

Voluntary euthanasia, or assisted dying, is the choice to end one’s life with medical assistance when faced with terminal illness, extreme suffering, or irreversible deterioration. It remains highly controversial, ethically complex, and deeply personal.

Countries like the Netherlands, Belgium, Canada, Switzerland, and certain states in Australia and the United States (such as Oregon and California) have legalized forms of euthanasia or physician-assisted dying, often with strict regulations.

In Belgium, a man in his seventies — let’s call him Johan — who had lived with advanced multiple sclerosis for over a decade, opted for euthanasia after he lost the ability to speak and swallow. He had made his decision months in advance, discussed it openly with his family, and held their hands as he peacefully passed away, surrounded by love, not machinery.

In Canada, a woman named Elise, battling terminal ovarian cancer, chose medical assistance in dying (MAiD) after months of pain medications no longer worked. Her last days were not spent in a hospital bed, sedated and distant, but at home, laughing softly with her children, choosing her final hour with dignity.

Critics argue that such decisions can lead down slippery ethical slopes. Some fear abuse, coercion, or a weakening of society’s respect for life. Others argue that terminally ill patients deserve the right to choose a compassionate end.

And in truth, both sides are rooted in deep concern for human dignity. The difference lies in interpretation: is dignity in enduring to the last breath, or in choosing when and how to let go?

The Denial of Death in Modern Society

Despite death being the most universal experience, modern society hides it away. We avoid talking about it, preparing for it, or even acknowledging its inevitability. The elderly are often isolated, the dying medicated into silence, and grief is expected to be “managed” quickly.

We speak of “beating death” with technology, of reversing aging, of upgrading our bodies — all in a desperate attempt to dodge the truth that we are temporary.

This denial breeds a dangerous illusion of invincibility. It fosters selfishness, materialism, and emotional detachment. We invest so much energy in achieving, possessing, and appearing powerful — only to be undone by the smallest things: a virus, an accident, a cell mutation.

Our refusal to confront death not only leaves us unprepared for our own passing, but deeply unempathetic toward others. We don’t know how to talk to someone grieving. We don’t know how to sit in silence with the dying. We don’t even know how to say goodbye.

But if we allowed death back into the conversation — not as a horror, but as a companion — we might learn to live differently.

Embracing Mortality as Strength

Acknowledging death does not diminish life; it illuminates it. In many cultures, rituals around death are not morbid but sacred.

In Japan, Buddhist monks meditate on death to better cherish life. In Mexico, Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is a vibrant celebration that honors ancestors and keeps their memory alive. In Islam, visiting graveyards is recommended to remember one’s own return to dust and to foster humility. In Christianity, the phrase “from dust you came and to dust you shall return” is spoken during Ash Wednesday — a reminder of earthly impermanence.

Moreover, many spiritual traditions understand this well. Buddhism teaches meditating on death as a path to enlightenment. Sufism encourages “dying before death” — letting go of ego to touch the divine. In Christianity and Islam, grave visits are encouraged as acts of remembrance and humility. Judaism speaks of “Tikkun Olam” — the moral duty to repair the world during our fleeting time here. Even indigenous cultures honor ancestors to bridge life and death as one cycle.

These rituals teach us to hold life tenderly, to say “I love you” before it’s too late, to write the letter we’ve been meaning to send, to hug a little longer. Facing death makes life sacred again.

Even writing a living will, expressing your end-of-life wishes, or visiting a graveyard once a year — these acts can center us. They make us aware, compassionate, and awake.

The Fragility of Human Life and the Ties That Bind Us

We are so breakable. And yet, so connected.

One person’s passing affects dozens — sometimes hundreds. We are sons, daughters, lovers, friends, coworkers, teachers, neighbors. A death is never singular. It sends ripples through every life it touched.

Recognizing this should make us gentler. It should reduce our harshness, increase our patience, and remind us that everyone we meet is walking a path toward the same end.

It also puts euthanasia into a larger context. It’s not just about the right to die — it’s about how we, as a society, treat suffering. Whether we allow autonomy, compassion, and dignity. Whether we provide options, care, and understanding. Whether we recognize that fragility demands not control, but mercy.

The Final Whisper

As you walk out of the graveyard, something within you has shifted. The world looks the same — the sun shines, the cars pass, birds chirp — but you have heard the whisper of truth. Life is short. Death is certain. Love is what matters.

Ayesha never got to open her second bakery. Faraz never boarded that plane. Johan and Elise chose their final days with intention. Each of them leaves behind a lesson — not in how they died, but in how they lived, and how they prepared for the end.

So pause. Reflect. If your name were to be etched on stone tomorrow, what would you want remembered? What would you change today?

We are not meant to live forever, but we are meant to live well.

Final Reflective Question

If life is uncertain and death is certain, how will you choose to live your remaining days?

Read: Unveiling the Essence of Beauty

__________________

Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.