When Did Death First Make Sense to You?

When was the first time you really understood the idea of death?

I think I was about seven. My grandfather had just died and everyone around me was speaking in this soft, careful tone, as though if they were too loud, he might come back and complain about the noise. I remember feeling confused — not just about the loss, but about the strange choreography that comes with it. People whispering. Adults saying “he’s gone” without giving any forwarding address.

It wasn’t until I was about eleven — give or take, because my memory has the consistency of a leaky sieve — that I truly began to grasp what death meant.

And then… I forgot.

Not forgot like I forgot death exists (that would be a talent), but forgot the emotional weight of it. Life has a way of tucking certain lessons into the attic until they randomly tumble back down onto your head. And lately, death’s been back in my thoughts, tapping me on the shoulder like, “Hey, remember me?”

Here’s the thing: I don’t think the concept of any big life phenomenon is a one-night download. You don’t suddenly “get” grief, love, forgiveness, or purpose after one encounter. If a lesson keeps showing up in your life, I believe it’s because you still have more to learn from it. And for me, death has been the persistent lecturer I never enrolled with but keep bumping into in the hallway.

Confucius famously said, “We have two lives, and the second begins when we realize we only have one.” Every time I read that quote, I react like it’s brand new information. My brain goes, “Whoa, that’s deep!” before realising I’ve had the exact same thought twelve times before. Memory issues? Maybe. Or maybe the lesson just keeps arriving in slightly different packaging.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what “realising we only have one life” actually means. Because here’s the strange paradox: the only certain thing about life is death, yet we spend so much time clinging to the uncertain parts, desperately trying to turn maybes into guarantees. It’s absurd. Absurd enough that it’s basically normal.

Working in a profession where death is an everyday background presence, you’d think I’d be immune to these existential jolts. I’m not. If anything, it’s the opposite. Every time I’m reminded that someone’s story has ended, I feel that nudge: Live differently. Speak differently. Show up differently.

I’m not saying we should all quit our jobs, move to Bali, and survive on mangoes in the name of “carpe diem.” But maybe we can start by treating life like the fragile, unpredictable, precious thing it is. Laugh more. Argue less. Tell people we love them without waiting for the “right moment.” Wear the outfit you’ve been “saving” for a special occasion, because spoiler alert: the occasion is being alive.

Death may be certain, but so is the fact that you are here right now, breathing and blinking and reading this sentence. That’s worth doing something about.