Memento Mori

Dear twenty-something,

Memento mori is a Latin phrase that means “remember death.” It’s meant to inspire, not depress—a gentle nudge to live fully, knowing that time is limited. When I was fifteen, I was convinced it would be my first tattoo. The phrase felt profound and edgy, like a secret piece of ancient wisdom I was mature enough to carry. That memory makes me chuckle now. How could I ever forget death? It paralyzes me almost every day. It’s the language my anxiety speaks most fluently.

I’ve been haunted by mortality for as long as I can remember. As a little girl, I would lie awake crying, overwhelmed by the realization that one day my parents would die. Later, when depression first entered my life, there was a strange chapter where I felt completely indifferent to death—a numbness I don’t think I’ll ever experience again. Now, I exist in a different space entirely: I curate playlists filled with songs that echo my fear of dying, read books on mortality like they might hold answers, and find myself ranting to my therapist week after week about how scared I am of losing the people I love.

It’s not my own death that scares me most—it’s the looming possibility that everything I hold dear could be ripped away in an instant. A phone call. That’s all it would take. Just one moment, one message, and the entire landscape of my life could shift. Even writing that down fills me with dread and makes my stomach turn. I know I’m fortunate. I haven’t experienced an overwhelming amount of loss in my life. But I’ve heard enough horror stories—watched enough lives around me unravel—to understand that no one is immune. And for someone like me, with a brain that clings to uncertainty like a lifeline, that knowledge is hard to hold.

I know that everyone, at least occasionally, ponders the idea that their life will one day end. But I’ve yet to meet anyone who feels haunted by it quite like I do. It’s not just a fleeting thought I push away. It’s a wave that crashes in, uninvited, no matter what I’m doing. I’ll be reading, eating, walking, sitting in class—and suddenly, my heart drops. My mind floods with emotion, sharp and immediate. The best way I can describe it is like a reverse flashback—a flash-forward, if you will. In an instant, I’m transported into the moment. The moment I get the call. The moment the world changes. I don’t just think about loss; I feel it. My stomach twists, my chest tightens, and I find myself frozen in that imagined future. 

I’m alone at home. My mind is calm and I am resting on the couch. Suddenly, my phone is buzzing. I instantly feel my heart drop. I know something is wrong. I look, and it’s my sister. “Something bad happened.” I’m on the floor, my soul crushed, my heart exploding. I can feel the grief like a baseball bat to the head. How do I move forward? How does life continue without them? Did I do enough for them? I miss them, I need them. I love them so fucking much. 

And afterward, I always feel a little crazy. I snap back into reality. A reality that suddenly feels a bit colder, a bit less peaceful then it did moments ago. Why must this fear follow me everywhere? 

This anxiety ties into another lifelong struggle of mine: relationship guilt. I constantly question whether I’m being a good enough friend, daughter, partner. And when I’m staring down the barrel of loss—even hypothetically—it magnifies the guilt tenfold. I start to spiral, thinking that no amount of love I’ve given could ever be enough to show people what they truly mean to me. 

I wish this was one of those blog posts where I could wrap things up with a neat little bow—a life lesson, a mantra, a mindset shift that finally brought me peace. But I’m not there. Not even close. I’ve tried therapy. I’ve tried medication. I’ve read more books on death and dying than I care to count. And still, the fear lingers. Sometimes quiet, sometimes overwhelming, but always present. The truth is, we never really know what will happen in the next month, day, or hour. Life is, by nature, unpredictable. And while I haven’t found a way to quiet the fear, I am trying to shift my energy. If I can’t stop the thoughts, maybe I can at least let them remind me to love harder. To show up more. Not from a place of guilt or perfectionism, but from a place of celebration. A place that says: I’m here. You’re here. And right now, that’s enough.

With Love,

23