I Hope When Death Finds Me, It Finds Me Alive

There’s a line I once read that stitched itself into my bones — “I hope when death finds me, it finds me alive.”

Not just breathing.

Alive.

You see, there’s a difference. Breathing is biology. But being alive — that’s a choice.

We spend so much of our lives in limbo. Existing in routines, swallowed by screens, numbed by comfort zones. We convince ourselves we’re living, but often we’re just drifting. Afraid to risk, to feel too deeply, to love too wildly, to fail too grandly. We choose “safe.” And safe is rarely alive.

I want to die with stories in my lungs. With laugh lines etched into my cheeks. With blisters from the roads I dared to walk, and scars from the love I dared to give. I want to say I danced in the kitchen at midnight, cried in the rain unapologetically, spoke my truth even when my voice trembled, and forgave even when it hurt.

Let death find me with dirt on my hands from planting something real — a dream, a friendship, a legacy. Let it find me mid-sentence, mid-song, mid-kiss. Let it find me in the middle of becoming — not fading.

I don’t want a life that looks perfect from the outside but feels hollow inside. I want a messy, honest, full life — one that was undeniably mine. Lived on my own terms. With courage, with curiosity, and with a little rebellion against the ordinary.

So no, I’m not afraid of dying.

I’m afraid of not living while I’m here.

And when that final knock comes — may it find me breathless, not from fear, but from the joy of having truly lived.