I’ve been living with the knowledge that I’m dying for a while now. It’s not something a doctor had to tell me, though ‘death’ was said to me years ago. Instead, it’s something I feel intuitively. It’s a quiet, steady knowing, a sense of nearing a profound transition. It’s not a scary feeling, but a deep and profound certainty, like the quiet that falls just before the first snowflake.
Again, it’s an intuitive sense, not a logical one. It’s in the way the colors seem a little brighter, the silence feels a little more profound, and the smallest moments carry the most weight. I see a flower and don’t just see a flower—I see a beautiful, living thing, and I’m aware of my deep connection to it.
This knowing has changed how I live. I find myself letting go of things that used to matter—small worries, old grudges, the need to control every outcome. Instead, I’m drawn to things that truly matter: the warmth of the sun on my face, a good conversation with a friend, the simple comfort of being present in the moment.
Some might call it a premonition. I see it as a gift. It’s an opportunity to live my remaining time with purpose and peace. It’s a chance to say the things I need to say, to hug the people I love a little tighter, and to find a sense of completion, not of loss. This isn’t about giving up; it’s about embracing what is. And in that embrace, I’ve found a kind of peace I never knew was possible.