The Art of Dying Well

...live fully without fear, laugh often, and, when the time comes, let go.

 How Do We Embrace Death?

“I don’t fear anything in life as much as I fear death itself,” she confessed, her voice trembling under the weight of her emotions. “The thought that something ends and I enter into an unconscious state scares me deeply. What does it feel like? Am I falling asleep? I’ve known myself since I was born, yet I can’t even imagine that before that day, I didn’t exist. I believe in God, you see. I’ve changed my beliefs many times. I believe in eternal life, in His Kingdom, but even the concept of something never-ending scares me. Why is death so complicated? I just want to live without thinking about it, but I can’t. The idea pops into my mind when I least expect it.”

I saw her fear as a professional and someone who once shared it. The terror of "the end" consumed me when I was younger, the concept of eternity no less suffocating than abrupt finality. For her, death wasn’t just a distant concept; it was a speeding train, ever approaching. It had seized control of her life, dictating her every move. She stopped driving to avoid accidents. She stopped traveling, fearful of airplanes collapsing. She stopped listening to music, needing to hear every whisper of potential danger. Death loomed over her like an ever-present shadow. Death, for her, was an omnipresent shadow, a thief lurking in the night.

We are born. We die. Between these two certainties lies the vast unpredictability of life. Many see death as the opposition of life, a looming villain. But consider this: Is the sunset the enemy of the day? Or is it a necessary counterpart, completing the cycle, allowing rest, renewal, and the possibility of a new dawn? Birth and death are the two certainties of existence, as inseparable as the inhale and exhale of breath. 

But life, and one extraordinary woman, taught me a lesson that changed my perspective. I invite you to open your heart and mind, if only for a moment, and consider another perspective. Let’s challenge the narratives we’ve told ourselves about death. To do that, I need to tell you about my great-grandmother, Matilda, a woman who defied death’s grip not with immortality but with irreverence, wit, and an unshakable acceptance of life’s transient nature. I invite you to journey with me into her story, to step into the possibility of seeing death not as the antagonist of life but as its inseparable natural counterpart.

This is from Matilda.

How do we face the inevitable? Is it with fear, denial, or curiosity? For most, the thought of death casts a shadow too dark to approach. Yet for Matilda, my great-grandmother, death wasn’t an adversary to conquer but an acquaintance she conversed with—sometimes impatiently.

Matilda, or, as we lovingly called her, “Mamo” or “Mămuca,” meaning “small mother”, was born in a Transylvanian village in a time when history itself was reshaping borders. She entered the world after Transylvania ceased to be part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the youngest of 11 siblings. Life was raw and vivid in her village: harvesting, farming, brewing, dancing the hora, storytelling, and, yes, dying. Death walked the streets openly, taking six of her siblings, stolen by illnesses that medicine couldn’t yet cure. Matilda’s mother, Carolina, bore the weight of those losses, but Matilda, too young to fully understand, carried their echoes.

In those days, death wasn’t hidden away. It was as much a part of daily life as harvesting crops or telling stories by the fire. “Death walked alongside us,” Matilda once told me. “It visited often, but we kept on living.”

Her village life was simple but full. But even as a young girl, she was restless. “I always knew I wasn’t meant to stay in that village,” she’d say. Matilda fell in love with Ion, a man as tall and broad as the Carpathian Mountains. But tradition dictated that her older sisters marry first.

She found moments of freedom at the Hora, a vibrant village gathering where food, drink, and dancing served as a prelude to courtship (Similar to what we call these days Tinder). With her hair braided, feet bare, and her finest clothes on, she danced with abandon alongside Ion. Undeterred, she packed her dowry, took Ion by the hand, and fled to Dej, a city teeming with Hungarian aristocrats. There, they settled, creating a life they could call their own. It was a bold move, scandalous even, but Matilda knew her priorities.

Teaching Death to a Child

When I was a child, Matilda was my caretaker and, unwittingly, my first teacher about death. One day, she showed me a dead bird and explained, “See, this bird is lying there, but it will never fly again. It still exists, but soon it will decompose and feed the ground.” I was horrified. “Will I feed the ground too?” I asked, paralyzed by the thought. She laughed and replied, “Who cares, Alice? You will not feel a thing! You will not even see it happening to your body because death happens to your body, not to you!”

She spoke of our bodies as vessels, mere temporary homes. Pinching her wrinkled arm skin with disdain, she would remark, “Look, Alice! This is my flesh, it got old and now is hanging because this is how time works. This is only my body, and it has a set time on this earth.” She had a dark humor that was both shocking and comforting. “I was the most beautiful girl in the village, and many young fellows wanted to marry me, even now I could count some!” she’d say with a laugh. “Now, I’m waiting for death to kiss me, but it’s taking its time!”

A Fearless Approach to Death

Her relationship with death was peculiar, almost flirtatious. She took me to funerals often, where others wept and wailed, but not Matilda. “Why cry?” she’d say. “He was old; it’s natural. We can’t expect bodies to last forever, they have finished their trial on Earth!”. Or “she was suffering, now, she’s free.” Her acceptance of mortality was profound, but her humor gave it an almost absurd lightness, the mood, turning sorrow into acceptance with her words.

Her own death was an ongoing topic of conversation. She prepared me for it from a young age, even giving me instructions in case I came home from kindergarten to find her unresponsive. “Check my breath with a mirror, throw water on me, and if I don’t stand up, go tell the neighbors that I’ve finally left,” she’d say, as casually as if she were explaining how to bake bread. Each morning, I was hugging her as if it were my last hug, and each day, I was running back home to check on her and hug her again.

One day, I came home to find her lying motionless on the floor. My heart froze. Just as I was about to run for help, she burst into laughter. “Oh, Alice, I can’t believe I tricked you! I wanted to see if you’d cry for me,” she teased. Her normalization of death was contagious, and I began to see it less as a looming shadow and more as an integral part of existence. She was never afraid of anything, nor death nor loneliness, she was even sleeping with her door open to feel the fresh air in hot summer evenings! Ion died even before I was born. I never knew her to have a partner; I always remembered her alone, but never feeling lonely. 

The Limits of Acceptance

However, even Matilda had moments when death seemed unfair. At her son’s funeral, she admitted, “A mother shouldn’t bury her child. It should be the other way around.” And yet, even then, she found a way to accept what couldn’t be changed. “He lived how he chose, and now, he sleeps in the bed he made.” Her grief was palpable, but she tempered it with her belief in personal responsibility.

Death as a Friend

In her later years, Matilda developed a peculiar relationship with death, speaking of it as an old acquaintance who was taking too long to visit. “God, did you forget about me? Are you too busy? Did you skip me?” she would pray aloud, half-jokingly, but with genuine curiosity. She even prepared her funeral outfit, trying it on to ensure she looked “like a distinctive lady” for her final departure. Her funeral clothes were chosen, ironed, and perfumed, folded in the wardrobe like an unspoken promise. But time kept her alive, year after year, until one day I saw her wearing her funeral clothes. When she observed our shocked eyes, she confessed, “Do not judge me, my funeral outfit is quite out of fashion, I need to buy a new one, and until then, I will use this one for home.”

As the years went by, she became increasingly isolated. Most of her friends had long since passed. When she called the family of an old friend, only to learn the woman had died six years earlier, she sighed, “Lucky her! Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?” Then, with a laugh, “I’ve outlived my expiration date. I’m here illegally! See Alice? My ID card has no expiration date left!”

The Final Goodbye

Every year, she declared it her last. I remember her approaching the table, her hands tucked behind her back as if hiding a secret. She would place her fists firmly on the surface, always careful to conceal the hand with only four fingers. Then, with a quiet certainty, she would announce, “This is the last Christmas you’ll see me,” or “This will be my last Easter, my last birthday.” Yet every year, she was still there, laughing, praying, and joking about how her identity card no longer had an expiration date. When I moved to Japan for university, I believed I was prepared for her death. She had been predicting it for years. Yet when my mother called, my heart felt different. “Mamo wants to speak with you,” she said. Her voice was trembling. I picked up the phone, expecting the usual humor, the same rehearsed lines about her impending death.

But this time was different. “Alice,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Today is the day. I will die.”

Her words hit me like a thunderclap. I had been preparing for this moment my entire life, or so I thought. Yet, when the real moment came, I was not ready.

“I don’t want you to cry,” she continued, knowing that I did not even have time to arrive at her funeral. “I’m happy. This world has moved past me, too much technology, too much change. It’s time for me to make space for others.” Her words, so simple and logical, left me in tears.

“Please, wait for me to come home,” I begged her.

“Alice,” she replied gently, “There is never an appropriate moment for death. It simply comes. But remember, you and I never had a fight. Our love was pure, and this, Alice, is the most important thing.”

That day, holding my mother’s hand, she exhaled one final time. Her body, once so full of life, seemed suddenly empty, a vessel returned to the earth.

Matilda taught me that life is not defined by its length but by the grace with which we embrace its inevitable end. She faced death with humor, courage, and dignity, leaving behind a legacy not of sorrow but of profound wisdom: to live fully without fear, laugh often, and, when the time comes, let go.

Lessons from Matilda

Matilda’s life teaches us that death doesn’t have to be feared. By embracing its inevitability, we can live fuller, richer lives, unburdened by anxiety. Her perspective, seeing death as a natural process, joking about it, and preparing for it, offers a refreshing antidote to the fear and sorrow that often accompany it.

In a world that clings to youth and fears mortality, Matilda’s story is a reminder that death, like life, is a gift. It’s not an end but a transformation, a chance to feed the ground so that new life can grow. And in that understanding, there is peace.

Normalizing Death: A Gentle Perspective

Matilda’s approach to death is a reminder that it doesn’t need to be a feared or taboo subject. She spoke about it with such naturalness that it felt like any other aspect of life. Her attitude encourages us to bring death into conversations in a way that demystifies it and helps us prepare emotionally and practically. By normalizing it, she removed its power to intimidate and made space for acceptance and peace.

Finding Joy in Everyday Moments

Matilda found immense happiness in the simple pleasures of life, even when death was present. From enjoying a dance to baking a fluffy cake with sour cherries (they were so delicious), she embraced the small things that made her days brighter. This perspective teaches us that joy doesn’t have to come from grand achievements; it can be found in the ordinary if we take the time to notice and cherish it.

 Living with Purpose

Throughout her life, Matilda remained engaged with her community and contributed to the lives of others: aiding the community, helping her family, and being a good friend to her neighbors. Her sense of purpose was a source of vitality and fulfillment, reminding us of the importance of staying active and connected. A meaningful life is not measured by years alone but by the impact we make and the connections we foster.

Grace in the Face of Challenges

Life presented Matilda with many trials, yet she met them with resilience and grace. Instead of resisting hardships, she accepted them as part of life’s fabric. This resilience inspires us to face our own difficulties with strength and acceptance, finding ways to adapt rather than succumb to despair.

The Power of Humor, Even About Death

Matilda’s lighthearted jokes about outliving her ID card and her readiness to meet her maker reflect a remarkable ability to laugh at life’s inevitabilities. Humor, even in the face of mortality, can transform fear into lightness and create connections with others. Her example encourages us to use laughter as a tool for healing and connection.

Strengthening Relationships Through Openness

By speaking candidly about her mortality, Matilda deepened her relationships with loved ones. She showed that open communication, even about difficult topics, can bring families closer and ensure that important values and wishes are shared. Her example urges us to have honest conversations that strengthen bonds and leave a meaningful legacy.

Aging with Dignity and Acceptance

Matilda embraced her aging process, seeing her wrinkles as marks of a life well-lived. She didn’t shy away from her mortality but prepared for it with practical and humorous touches, like selecting her funeral outfit. This acceptance of aging as a natural and beautiful part of life encourages us to embrace our own journeys with dignity and pride.

Faith and Gratitude as Anchors in Life

Matilda’s nightly prayers reflected a profound gratitude for her life and a hopeful belief in reuniting with loved ones. Whether through faith or simple mindfulness, finding a source of comfort and gratitude can ground us during life’s most challenging moments. Her example inspires us to cultivate a sense of thankfulness and spiritual connection.

Perspective is Everything

Perhaps the greatest lesson from Matilda’s life is the power of perspective. She chose to see beauty where others might see despair, finding humor in death, joy in simplicity, and peace in acceptance. Her approach reminds us that how we view life’s challenges shapes our experience of them. With the right mindset, we can transform fear into peace, hardship into resilience, and life itself into a beautiful journey.

So, as her story ends, perhaps ours begins with a new perspective: What kind of story are you writing with your own life?

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