From the moment I was born, death surrounded me. The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck like a natural noose, trying to lull me back into an endless slumber. The frantic movements of the doctors, the bright lights of the delivery room, and the sterile smell of antiseptics were my first introductions to the world. Even then, I seemed to be caught in a dance with death.

As a child, my family took me to church every week, hoping it would provide me with a sense of belonging. Instead, the bright lights hurt my eyes, the hymns pierced my ears, and the incense made me cough. The vastness of the church’s ceiling felt oppressive, pressing down on me like an invisible weight. I began to believe these discomforts were signs that I did not belong, that heaven and hell weren’t for me. I started to think about the prospect of no longer being, fearing the idea of nothingness.

Every Sunday, we’d file into the same pew, the worn wood smooth under my fingers. My mother would straighten my collar and remind me to sit up straight, her voice a soft whisper against the backdrop of organ music. The church was always cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones. I’d watch the stained glass windows, the colors muted and dull in the weak morning light, and imagine the saints depicted there coming to life, stepping down to offer some grand revelation. But they never did.

During the sermons, my mind would wander. The vicar’s voice was a distant hum, words blurring together into a monotonous drone. I’d try to focus on the flickering candles at the altar, their flames dancing and casting long shadows but they’d lick at my eyes causing them to water. The scent of melting wax mixed with the sharp tang of incense, created an almost suffocating atmosphere. The congregation’s responses were always ritualistic and synchronised as if everyone was part of a play, I did not know my lines.

I sat with this uncomfortable feeling for years, wondering if my watery eyes were actually in some way the church expelling the devil. Was I a bad person because I struggled to believe? At times I would squeeze my eyes closed so tight they would hurt, hoping that when they opened suddenly God would make sense to me and death wouldn’t scare me every time it crossed my mind.

When I was 10, my mother took me to the doctor, concerned something was wrong. They tried to explain that my anxiety was a response to my dad leaving, a phase that would end. She had caught me crying in the back seat while collecting fish and chips for our tea. The paper bags crackled as she brought them into the car, the smell of vinegar and salt mingling with my tears. It was my first panic attack. “I don’t want to die,” I screamed, my chest heaving. My mother smiled at me, her eyes full of sorrow, and reassured me that I didn’t need to worry about that—it was far off, I was only young. But her words offered no comfort. I wanted her to tell me it was all a lie, that people didn’t die, that it wouldn’t happen to me, that I would be okay. But she didn’t.

As I aged, the fear did not subside. Instead, it grew within me, festering at the back of my mind until it found a moment to emerge. Night after night, I would lie awake, the shadows in my room turning into specters of my fears. My breath would become shallow, my heart racing as if trying to escape my chest. Were the panic attacks causing the fear, or was the fear causing the panic attacks? I still don’t know the answer.

I remember one particularly harrowing night when I was around 12. The darkness felt alive, pulsating with my anxiety. Every creak of the house, every rustle of the wind outside my window was amplified, becoming monstrous sounds that sent shivers down my spine. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, each thump a reminder of my fragile existence. I tried to focus on the texture of my blankets, the coolness of my pillow, anything to ground myself, but the sinking feeling in my chest wouldn’t go away. I could not comprehend not being alive, the possibility of nothingness.

Desperate for relief, I would count backwards from a hundred, hoping the mental exercise would tire me out. I kept my gameboy under my pillow, using its faint glow to reassure myself that the world was still there, that I was still here. Sometimes, I would sneak into my mother’s room and sit by her bed, drawing comfort from her presence. Hoping for some solace.

By 14, I began to get over these episodes. I almost forgot the true feeling of powerlessness, how scared I’d felt. The fear of losing people or the ending of relationships seemed distant. Perhaps the doctors were right; it was connected to my father leaving. Or maybe I was truly scared of losing people. I just knew that for a time, I felt okay. I felt like I could breathe again, enjoy my time with friends, and focus on school without the constant shadow of anxiety looming over me. The world seemed brighter, and I even started to believe that the worst was behind me but nothing is ever so simple.

When I was 15, my Nan died of cancer. We hadn’t seen her for a while, she didn’t want us to see her frailty. I think this is because she had always been a pillar of strength within our family, she was also an incredible cook. I remember the last Christmas we spent together vividly. The smell of her famous roast filled the air as we gathered around the table, her face glowing with joy as she served each dish. The berries I’m her Eaton mess seemed even sweeter that year. Then, as if overnight, she was gone. The emptiness in the house was  like a void that swallowed the warmth and light, leaving us all unsteady and unsure. We didn’t go back to my grandparents house at Christmas after that.

Not even a year later my Granddad passed away too. We visited him at the hospice before he died. The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the faint scent of flowers by his bedside. The hospice was a quiet, solemn place, filled with the soft murmurs of visitors and the hum of medical equipment. I looked at him, trying to keep my tears at bay. I had so many questions, so much more I wanted to say. My parents would escort me out when I couldn’t hold back my sobs, thinking it would make it easier for both of us. It did not. Leaving him felt like abandoning him in his final moments, like I had failed him somehow.

At his funeral, I watched as those who never wept cried floods of tears. The song “Fields of Gold” was chosen for both of my grandparents’ funerals, connecting them even after death. The music seemed to wrap around my heart, squeezing until I couldn’t contain my tears. I felt the crushing presence of death standing in that room, an uninvited guest that none of us could ignore.

At 18, I had a peculiar run-in with death. The weight of my depression had become unbearable, the darkness so consuming that my urge to die surpassed my fear and uncertainty towards it. I felt trapped in an abyss, unable to see any light or hope for the future. In a moment of utter despair, I attempted suicide for the first time. The act itself felt surreal, as if I were watching someone else carry it out. I felt death watching me, taunting me, a cold and relentless presence that seemed almost comforting in my darkest moments.

My family saw the change in me, the lifelessness in my eyes, the emptiness in my actions. They moved all sharp objects to places I did not know, and the medicine cabinet was emptied of anything that could be used to harm myself. My mother held me and cried, her tears soaking my hair as I barely registered anything happening around me. Her pain was a raw wound that mirrored my own internal suffering.

During this period, time seemed to stretch and blur. Days merged into nights, and I drifted in and out of a numb state. Friends reached out, their voices filled with concern, but I felt disconnected from everything and everyone. It was as if I was existing in a different dimension, separated from the living world by an invisible barrier. The love and care surrounding me felt distant, like a faint echo I could barely hear.

When I finally felt better, after what felt like decades, I began to see the full impact of what I meant to the people around me. In a strange way, I had seen what it could have been like if I had passed away. You do not consider how others may feel when you are that ill, but when I felt better, I was profoundly glad that I did not succeed.

When I was 21, my Auntie became very sick. Just the year before, she had inspired me to take charge of my life during a trip to Spain. We wandered through cobblestone streets, visited vibrant markets, and shared endless conversations under the Spanish sun. Her confidence and contentment were infectious. She was beautiful, with a radiant smile and the same curly hair we both cherished. She made me feel like I was enough, encouraging me to pursue my dreams without fear. That trip was transformative, and her words stayed with me long after.

The last time I saw her, we went out for dinner. She barely ate. Her complexion now pale and thin and the lively spark in her eyes that once shone so brightly was dimmed, replaced by a weary sadness. I felt a strange unease seeing her this way, it felt like she was hollow. I meant to see her again over Christmas before my next term at university began but I was so caught up in my own life that I forgot to solidify any plans. I sent a short text, promising I’d see her soon and hoping that she was feeling okay, she told me not to worry about her. I never saw her again.

For days after I found out she had passed, I felt the heavy weight of guilt. Processing the finality of death was overwhelming. The realisation that I would never see her again, that I didn’t make enough time for her, gnawed at me. You can’t go back and say sorry or I love you one more time. You can’t hug them, hear their laugh, or see their smile ever again. I cried as my flatmates comforted me, and we listened to her favorite album. The music was a bittersweet reminder of her, each song a testament to the memories we shared. Before bed, I would look in the mirror at my blotchy red face, skinny little arms, and straightened hair, not recognising myself. It felt like by straightening my hair, I had forgotten how much it had meant to me that we had shared our curls. The guilt in me grew, and my nightly panic attacks came back with a vengeance.

At my Auntie’s funeral, everyone aimed to celebrate her life. The room was filled with stories of her kindness, her humour, and the countless lives she touched. The loss was too much for me and I turned to getting really high. So high that I thought my chest might burst before my heart could beat again. I was the last person awake, unable to sleep. I thought maybe if I got high enough I’d see her one last time or maybe forget that she was really gone, but I’m reality I found myself deeper in thought and alone. The weight of her absence pressed down on me, suffocating in its intensity. The reality of her death settled in, an inescapable truth that left me grappling with profound sorrow and regret.

The following year, after enduring immense pain and grief which had brought on a drug addiction I was finally starting to feel better. I had met a partner who brought new light into my life, I had stopped frequenting drugs and things seemed to be on the up. I had made peace with my Auntie’s passing, finding solace in the memories we shared and the lessons she imparted. I had begun to heal when death struck again, this time more suddenly and swiftly than u could have ever predicted.

I was in my room, listening to music, when my phone buzzed with a message from my cousin’s girlfriend on Facebook. We had never really spoken much before, so I found it odd that she had reached out. I assumed at first maybe my cousins phone was broken or something of the sort and this is what had prompted her to reach out.  When I opened the message, a chill ran down my spine. I thought perhaps I had misread it initially, the time was so casual, as if some minor bad news was being share “Can you get hold of your Dad, Your cousin has found his brother dead this morning :(“

The words didn’t register immediately. I sat there, frozen in disbelief, staring at the sad face emoji at the end of the message. The shock was so profound that I couldn’t even cry. It felt surreal, like a bad dream I was about to wake up from. I simply text back “fuck fuck fuck” which was met with an explanation that my Dad had now been contacted, i didn’t respond again. Autopilot took over, and I went next door to tell my brother. How do you tell someone that someone they love has died? The words felt foreign and heavy in my mouth. He was just playing his Xbox like normal, like it was a normal day, so blissfully unaware of what I was about to tell him. I think he didn’t know what to say, I didn’t even know what to say and it had spilled out of me in a big tangle of words. “Oh really?” Was all he managed before he went back to his game

Next, I called my mum at work. I remember her answering the phone in such a cheerful mood, her voice light and full of energy. Knowing I was going to ruin her day with devastating news was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. When I told her, she burst into tears. I hadn’t even thought to wait until she got home. I was so consumed by shock and grief that I felt an urgent need to say it out loud to the people close to me, as if doing so might somehow make it less real, less final. As if them sharing the grief might help in some way. Like if I got it out quickly, it would go away, and we could all go back to being fine. But it didn’t, and we couldn’t.

We never had a funeral for my cousin. We never got to say goodbye. He wasn’t even 30. The lack of closure left a gaping wound that refused to heal. I knew it was drugs that had killed him and I vowed to never tough drugs again. For the first time since I was a child, I prayed. I prayed that my Auntie and my cousin were together, that they could look after each other wherever they were.
That moment of prayer was a turning point. In my desperate plea for their peace, I realized that I believed in an afterlife. For the first time, I didn’t question that they would be somewhere safe, I knew they were. This belief offered a strange comfort, a sense of continuity beyond the veil of death. I felt connected to them, as if their spirits lingered around me, offering silent support and guidance.

Over the years leading up to today, I have often felt the presence of those I’ve lost at various moments in my life. Sometimes, in quiet, reflective instances, I sense them with me, cheering me on, and proudly watching the person I am becoming. Their invisible support has become a source of strength, helping me navigate both the challenges and joys of life. When I accomplish something significant or face a difficult decision, I imagine their approving smiles and words of encouragement, which bolster my resolve and fill me with a sense of purpose.

Despite the persistent feeling that death surrounds me, I am working on not fearing it. The weight of past losses no longer feels as suffocating. Instead, I am learning to cherish the time I have and the memories of those I’ve lost. Their absence has taught me the value of presence, of living in the moment and appreciating the people around me.
Death is still a shadow that looms large, it still panics me at times but it no longer paralyses me. Instead, each day becomes an opportunity to leave a positive impact. I strive to live in a way that would make them proud, carrying forward the love and lessons they imparted. I live for them.

After all the terrible things I have felt surrounding death,  the uncertainty, discomfort and sorrow it brings it has also taught me about life. With every loss I have learnt to be stronger, death is inevitable but the love we share with others transcends it. The relationships and experiences we build through life become part of our legacy, continuing to influence and shape those who remain. I am beginning to find peace amidst the pain, I realise I am not alone; death surrounds everyone, but it’s how we choose to live in the face of it that defines us.