What I’m Learning About Mortality at 61

Each day, without fail, I think about death. This isn’t some macabre fascination, nor an act of morbid curiosity. It’s simply a persistent reminder of the transience of life—a constant companion that guides how I see the world and make decisions. 

These thoughts are not born from fear but from an awareness that we are all, in some way, living on borrowed time.

The philosopher Seneca, in his letters, often warned against the illusion that we have unlimited time to spend. “You live as if you are destined to live forever,” he once wrote. “No thought of your frailty ever enters your head, of how much time has already gone by.” These words reverberate in me, particularly because I know the fragility of life firsthand. 

I’ve had my own brushes with death, moments that shook me out of complacency, forcing me to confront the finite nature of my existence. There’s something transformative in being reminded of your mortality. It sharpens your perspective, cuts through the trivial, and calls you back to what truly matters.

In many ways, Lao Tzu and Zhuangzi saw death as part of a larger natural cycle. Lao Tzu, in Tao Te Ching, urged us to live in harmony with the Tao, the flow of life, and accept death as a return to the source. He believed in aligning with the rhythms of the universe, understanding that life’s brevity is not to be feared but embraced as part of the unfolding. 

Zhuangzi, known for his whimsical musings on death, famously viewed it as a transformation, no different than the changing of seasons. He even criticized mourning as an unnatural response, seeing death as simply another stage of existence.

Yet, that acceptance of death doesn’t mean complacency. If anything, it compels me to live with a sense of urgency. Confucius taught that we must strive for virtue and character in the short time we have, reminding us that the meaning of life is not measured in length but in the quality of our actions. 

He spoke of the “rectification of the self” as the ultimate goal, to live in accordance with the highest principles and ensure that our days are not squandered. That resonates deeply with me—the idea that while we cannot control how long we live, we can choose how well we live.

This sense of urgency, this constant awareness of my limited days, changes everything. When you know that life could end at any moment, what you prioritize shifts dramatically. Mundane worries lose their grip, and what remains are the things that truly matter: connection, love, creativity, peace. 

It’s as if death, paradoxically, illuminates life. It brings clarity. Suddenly, the moments I used to take for granted become profound. The quiet joy of sipping coffee in the morning, the warmth of sunlight on my skin, the sound of laughter—all of these become reminders of life’s fleeting beauty.

I think about death every day because I don’t want to fall into the trap of believing I have endless time. I want to live consciously, fully, and with intention. Seneca said it best: “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it.” 

He was right. Most of us do waste time, distracted by trivialities, bogged down by concerns that will be irrelevant in the end. But the truth is, I can’t afford to be distracted. I’ve felt the weight of death close by, and now, I carry that awareness with me as a guide, pushing me to squeeze every ounce of meaning from the time I have left.

Lao Tzu’s wisdom to “let go of control” and Zhuangzi’s reminder to “take life as it comes” may seem to contrast with my urgency, but they don’t. They complement it. It is not control I seek, but rather presence—an immersion into each moment. 

By accepting that life is short, I find that I am not anxious but instead more alive, more engaged. Each decision, each action becomes more intentional. There’s no time to waste on things that don’t nourish the soul. And that urgency, born from death, is what gives my life its richness.

In thinking about death every day, I am, ironically, thinking about how to live better. How to make sure that, when my time does come, I have no regrets. I don’t want to leave this life having spent my days merely existing. I want to leave having lived.

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