quirkyreally870306032a-pevxr

She had no fear of death—at least, that’s what she told herself. Yet it rang in her ear like a solemn, sacred cry, echoing into the deepest parts of her knowing that, as a human, she did fear it. She wondered how. She wondered when. She wondered how she could ever face a day without seeing her son’s face again—without witnessing all the joys he had yet to experience: a future graduation, the onset of manhood, the possibility of marriage.

Each night, as she prayed that whatever this intelligence was would not take her from him too soon, she found herself glancing over her shoulder, imagining death rushing toward her like a bullet fired from a wayward gun aimed straight at her.

But each time she reached for that fear—each time she took death by the hand instead of running from it—something shifted. She didn’t just lose her fear of dying; she lost her fear of the emptiness itself. The emptiness didn’t demand anything from her. It didn’t ask her to be brave or afraid. It simply reflected what she was without the weight of terror: herself, unburdened by fear, unburdened by all the thoughts that both terrified and uplifted her.

And as she stepped through each fear, they unfolded before her like a puzzle that had long known its own solution—
like a life that had always known the rules.