For no particular reason, I found myself pondering death this morning. As I sat still and thought about dying, memories of my childhood, major life milestones, and the faces and voices of my loved ones flooded in.

I thought to myself how at some point in time I’ll suddenly have no more perceptions, thoughts, or feelings. How I won’t be able to wake up and feel the sun on my skin, drink a glass of water, or speak to another human. That one moment I’ll be in this world, and the next, I’ll be gone. How strange it is that our physical bodies will remain in the world briefly, even after our consciousness will have left.

Like the flame of a candle slowly dwindling, then all of a sudden vanishing entirely, leaving behind only a thin, wispy column of smoke.

My chest tightened, and I felt a deep ache at the core of my body – which I identified as a combination of fear and urgency.

My grandparents came to mind. Since I was a kid, I’ve thought of them to be old. Back then they were 60, but now they’re approaching 90, and far closer to the end. When I was around 4 years old, I remember my older brother would ask, “if I don’t cry when grandpa dies, does that make me a bad person?” Two small children discussing morality and death. Peculiar. Ever since I was old enough to grasp the concept, the finality of it has always been hard for me to wrap my head around. It felt impossible. That there was no way that was it.

Of course as I got older I learned about the various religious explanations, be it eternity in heaven or hell, or reincarnation. Somehow I eventually came to see them as frameworks that help guide our morality and actions while we’re here, and that realistically when we die, we die.

I then imagined a world where we lived twice as long. Where we either aged more slowly, or where time stretched out further. At first, this sounded nice. We’d accrue more experiences, acquire more knowledge, and share more moments with those who matter to us. But in the end, we’d still die.

On the other hand, I could not begin to imagine a world where death was not the end. It would require a whole new reality. Because in our world, every single second, people are born, and people die. We each have our allotted time here on Earth. But then, we must go. Death is a necessary function. It allows us to evolve and grow. When I see things this way, I think about my own purpose. I’ve come to believe that my core purpose may simply be to find my own purpose. To discover and create my own meaning for my life.

The natural, evolutionary cycle of life is beautiful to me. Growing up I’d listen closely to the stories my parents told of their lives before I was born. I was especially interested in how they came to have my brothers and me, and how they built the life that we had. I was fascinated by their reasoning behind moving to a new country, to live in the specific city and exact neighborhood we grew up in, and I’d try to understand what it was like for them, how they felt, and whether or not they were happy.

Seeing how one by one, the generations above me created better lives for their children, which directly led to the exact upbringing I had, inspires me to do the same. To carry my parents’ efforts forward, and to build from the foundation I inherited. And so I’ve never questioned if I want to have my own children one day. For me, starting my own family with the love of my life and continuing our lineage is a fundamental component of my life’s purpose. Life and death. Two sides of the same coin.

Last year my grandpa fell gravely ill with a stroke. There was a blood vessel in his brain that ruptured. When he was in the hospital for 3 weeks, we would call, and it hurt to see him in such a fragile, painful state. The familiar smile I was used to seeing had disappeared. He seemed worried, and I wasn’t sure if he recognized me as his grandson. All I could do was nod, smile, and encourage him, in hopes that he could understand, or perhaps that by seeing my face, he would feel a sense of calm within.

As we called from time to time over the course of his lengthy recovery, he started to regain his senses. I frequently watched him practice writing the Chinese characters of my name, then my grandmother’s name, and eventually the names of our entire family. I smiled, seeing how resilient he was in fighting day after day, putting in the work to regain his senses and his self-agency. Close to a year later, he’s joyful, agreeable, and content. He’s happy to be here. Even though he can’t read as well as he once could (Grandpa has always been a book worm), and some of his thoughts are not as incoherent, he’s found a great pace to his life.

I say all this because in this brush with death, I saw how delicate life truly is and how important it is for us to discover and pursue what’s truly important to us before it all goes by. I saw this urgency in my father. After nearly 10 years without setting foot back in China, fighting his own fights in the US, he set it all aside and got on a plane back to Fuzhou.

Once my grandpa was discharged, my dad started renovating their house, cleaning and re-organizing the space, preaching spirituality to them, helping them raise their quality of life. In the wake of my grandpa’s illness, my dad grew even closer to his parents. It brought him home to where it all started, and it changed the course of my parents’ lives.

In a few weeks I’ll be traveling back to where I grew up to see them, for what may well be one of the few more times we’ll all be together as a family – my parents, grandparents, and my brothers. Just like it was when we were kids. I suppose through this reflection I’ve realized that there’s really nothing to fear about death, because it’s what makes the time we have meaningful, and the moments we get to have worth everything.