My cousin died in his sleep two nights ago from a brain aneurysm. We were the same age. Off by a year. Grew up together. So many childhood memories.

That’s nine. Sigh.

The morning I received the news, I found myself staring at my own most recent scan results showing the two tiny aneurysms sitting quietly in my carotid arteries, trying to figure out what exactly I was feeling.

Fear?

Maybe a little.

But honestly… not in the way people probably expect.

What scares me more than death itself has never really been death. It’s suffering. Prolonged suffering. My condition causing its sister effect: a stroke.

Becoming trapped inside a body or mind that no longer feels like mine.

Losing autonomy.

Losing dignity.

Becoming dependent in ways that strip away the very essence of who I am.

I know that probably sounds dark to some people. Maybe even cold. But I think many more people feel this way than are willing to admit out loud.

Especially after you’ve watched enough people suffer.

And I have.

I’ve lost nine people in thirteen months.

Nine.

Just one after the other, like some dark and twisted yet somehow completely natural game of dominos.

At a certain point, grief stops feeling like an occasional visitor and starts feeling atmospheric.

Like humidity.

Like background radiation.

Your nervous system never fully unclenches anymore because another phone call always feels possible.

Another post.

Another text.

Another “did you hear what happened?”

Social media starts feeling less like connection and more like a digital obituary board.

And something strange happens after enough loss: mortality stops being theoretical.

It becomes intimate.

You begin realizing how many people are quietly walking around carrying fragile things inside them.

Weak arteries.

Faulty hearts.

Tumors no one knows about yet.

Silent illnesses.

Aneurysms.

Exhaustion.

Grief.

Invisible battles hidden beneath grocery shopping, paying bills, posting selfies, arguing about politics, making dinner.

Human beings are so much sturdier than we realize.

And so much more breakable.

A song comes to mind by Ingrid Michaelson. “Breakable.”

She sings:

And we are so fragile
And our cracking bones make noise
And we are just
Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys

I think that realization has changed me more than anything else over the last couple years.

Not into someone wiser, necessarily. Just… more honest.

But also.. heavier.

Not that I needed any more weight added to my existence. But apparently I’ve contracted it that way. Signed on the dotted line.

People sometimes read my writing and assume I think I have everything figured out spiritually or philosophically.

I don’t.

Nowhere near.

I’m deeply suspicious of anyone claiming any amount of certainty about existence.

I think most of us are just frightened, soft animals trying to build meaning around the fact that we know we’re going to die someday.

I don’t know exactly what happens after death.

I’ve read stories.

I’ve studied philosophies.

I’ve had moments in my life that made me feel deeply connected to something larger than myself. Moments that made me wonder if consciousness extends beyond the body somehow.

But if I’m being honest?

I still don’t know.

I question it daily.

My believes bend and sway and shapeshift by the minute.

No one can know when literally all we write down as truth are words first uttered by human predecessors capable of getting it very, very wrong.

I only write about what rings truest in my chest.

And what rings true lately is this:

Life is unbelievably fucking fragile.

Which makes it by its very definition, sacred.

Not sacred in the polished Instagram quote kind of way. Sacred in the incredibly ordinary way.

Coffee while the house is quiet.

Bare feet in wet grass.

Your kiddo laughing in another room.

Music hitting your chest at exactly the right moment.

A dog resting its head on your leg.

The way sunlight spills across the kitchen counter for three minutes every morning before moving on.

Maybe mortality is what makes those moments matter so much.

Maybe impermanence is the entire point.

Or maybe that’s just something humans tell ourselves so we can sleep at night.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that death has felt very close lately. Close enough that I can hear it breathing sometimes.

I think grief strips you down eventually.

Not all at once.

Slowly.

Until all that’s left is what’s real.

---

Rest in peace, Scott. 🕊️

I loved you dearly, you darling man. 🖤