I grew up in a religious home, so I spent a good part of my life seeing death as less of a nightmare and more of a ticket to an afterlife. Plenty of faiths offer that cushion — a promise that you’ll see loved ones again, maybe share jokes in heaven forever. I shared that mindset, and by 2009, I found myself in Iraq, feeling surprisingly calm. The pay was decent, and from time to time, a group of Koreans would “pop your cork” (if you’ve been there, you might know what that means). Despite being in a war zone, I didn’t feel fear gnawing at me.

Then I came back and started a BS degree in science. Before that, I hadn’t paid much mind to chemistry or biology. The moment I realized the complexity of it all, I thought, “There ain’t no way all of this was thought up by some dude who has never ever shown herself to anyone.” That spark set off my deconversion. Suddenly I was 20 years old, no longer convinced there was a god, and the concept of death crept in as a terrifying unknown.

Late-born atheists like me get bombarded with questions: What happens after I die if there’s nothing there? Sleepless nights and an anxious mind became my routine.

I’m 35 now. For a while, the fear of death faded but not completely. Something as simple as seeing how old Sylvester Stallone is now would had me going back to that awful place. Then life threw a curveball at me in July 2023. I got really sick, and after many near-death experiences, I was diagnosed with Wilson’s Disease plus a Mast Cell Disorder. The first is more or less under control, but the second turned my day-to-day into a chain of hives, pain, confusion, fatigue, asthma, gastritis, constipation, and fevers.

Every day.

At first, I was petrified. Each trip to the ER, each anaphylaxis episode — my fear kicked up another notch. I felt sure my time was almost up.

But an odd thing happened as it got worse: I found comfort, bit by bit, in the possibility that I might not have long to live if no treatment could fix it. I made myself focus on surviving until bedtime, then repeating it the next morning. And somewhere in that rough patch, I found peace. Suddenly, dying wasn’t a horror. It felt more like a distant calm. I never understood my grandmother’s words when she would say she just wanted it all to end, but now I do.

When you deal with never-ending pain, that final step can feel like rest.

What I’m left with is a strange acceptance. I used to be the person who couldn’t sleep, worried about how many days I had left. Now, the specter of death is no longer a sharp blade hanging over me. In fact, it seems like a promise of relief if my body refuses to cooperate. I’m not saying I wish to die this instant, but I’ve let go of the terror. And that alone is a victory.