Death is such a strange thing to think about, let alone to write about. We spend so much of our lives trying to avoid it—not just physically by eating the right foods, exercising, or getting regular checkups, but emotionally too, by pushing it out of our minds, keeping it at arm’s length as if ignoring it will somehow make it less inevitable. But when I stop and really think about it, I know that the way I leave this world will be just as important to me as the way I have lived in it. I have often thought about what a “good death” means to me, and the truth is, I don’t think it has as much to do with the exact moment of dying as it does with the way the moments leading up to it are lived. Still, when I picture my final minutes, I find myself returning to the same vision over and over again—one that looks nothing like a hospital room with sterile white walls, harsh fluorescent lights, or the constant beeping of machines.
I want to die at sunset.
Not just any sunset, but one of those that feels like the whole sky has been dipped in gold and rose, with streaks of deep orange and tender pink bleeding into one another. The kind of sunset that feels like a slow exhale from the world itself, as if even the day is saying, “It’s time to rest now.” I want to be lying somewhere comfortable—preferably in my own bed, the one that has held my weight and my dreams for so many years. I want my windows open so I can feel the wind against my skin, not the artificial air of an air-conditioned room, but the kind of breeze that carries scents of flowers. I want to hear the sound of rustling leaves outside. Nature has always had a way of making me feel at peace, as if reminding me that life has always been part of a greater rhythm.
Most importantly, I want to be surrounded by the people I love. Not in a frantic, grief-heavy way, but in a soft, grounded way—like the way we sit together during an ordinary afternoon, sipping tea or talking about nothing in particular. I don’t want them to feel burdened with the logistics of my departure. I want my affairs to be in order long before that day comes. My will written, my debts cleared, my keepsakes handed down with love. I want there to be nothing for them to “handle” except being there. Their only job should be to simply hold my hand, share memories, maybe even laugh with me. I want my final moments to be ones where everyone present can be fully there—not thinking about funeral arrangements, paperwork, or unanswered questions.
It’s not that I fear hospitals or dislike doctors—they’ve saved my life before, and I’m grateful for that—but a hospital death feels too clinical for me. There’s a sense of disconnect in those rooms. Even when loved ones gather, they’re often just visitors in a space that doesn’t belong to them, always at the mercy of schedules, interruptions, and the constant reminder that other patients, other emergencies, and other lives are happening just beyond the curtain. I’ve seen people pass in those rooms, and while it can still be peaceful, it’s not the peace I long for. I want to die at home. I want to feel like I’m leaving from a place that knows me—where the walls have heard my laughter, where the floors have felt my footsteps, where the very air seems to remember me.
Over the years, one of the most striking things I’ve learned is how deeply the definition of a “good death” varies from person to person. For some, a good death is one that’s quick, painless, and comes without warning. For others, it’s about having time to say goodbye, to make peace, to tie up loose ends. Some people want music playing in their final hours, others want silence. Some want religious rituals, prayers, and blessings, while others want nothing more than the quiet company of those they love. There is no single definition because there is no single way to live—and death, in many ways, mirrors life.
For me, a peaceful death would be one where I am still myself until the end. I want my mind to be clear enough to recognize the faces around me, to tell them I love them, to remember the moments we’ve shared. I don’t want to be so medicated that I’m lost in a fog, but I also don’t want to be in unbearable pain. I hope for a balance—enough comfort to let go without struggling, enough awareness to savour the final drops of life.
If I could choose, my final moments would be filled with gratitude. Gratitude for my children, who have been my greatest joy and my most profound teachers. Gratitude for my family and friends who have walked through life’s storms with me. Gratitude for the places I’ve seen, the sunsets I’ve chased, the meals I’ve shared. Gratitude for the mistakes that shaped me, the heartbreaks that deepened me, the laughter that healed me. Gratitude for my faith, which has been my anchor in dark waters. I want to leave this world knowing that I loved deeply, forgave freely, and lived authentically.
I imagine that as the light outside my window fades into the purples and indigos of early night, I’ll take one last deep breath and let it out slowly, like a final sigh of relief. I imagine the faces around me might blur a little as my eyes grow heavy. I hope they won’t cry too much—though I know they will—because I want them to feel, deep in their bones, that I am at peace. I want them to know that I have no regrets that matter, no lingering bitterness, no sense of unfinished business. I want them to feel that this was the right time, the right way.
Of course, the truth is, death rarely goes exactly as we picture it. We can’t control every detail. Accidents happen, illnesses surprise us, and sometimes the people we love most can’t be there when the end comes. But perhaps the value in imagining a “good death” isn’t in guaranteeing it—it’s in shaping the way we live now. Thinking about how I want to die reminds me to live more in alignment with those values today. If I want to die surrounded by love, then I need to cultivate that love now. If I want my affairs in order, then I should start putting them in order now. If I want peace, then I should stop carrying grudges or putting off forgiveness.
I have learned that the greatest gift you can give your loved ones is not your presence in life, but your clarity in death. So many families are left scrambling, guessing at what the person would have wanted, arguing over decisions, weighed down by the stress of not knowing. That’s why I’m determined to be open with my family about my wishes—not because I’m morbid, but because I love them too much to leave them in the dark.
In the end, a good death, for me, is one that reflects the life I tried to live: honest, intentional, connected. I don’t want to leave in chaos. I want my final chapter to be one that brings comfort to those who read it, even as they close the book.
So, when I think about my “minute on a good death,” I think about sunset. I think about the way the light softens, the way the sky tells you it’s time to rest without fear or resistance. I think about the wind against my skin and the rustle of leaves. I think about the warmth of my children’s hands in mine and my mother’s familiar voice. I think about closing my eyes and feeling, in the very last heartbeat, that I am exactly where I am meant to be.
That, to me, is peace. And that, to me, is a good death.
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