Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Rome, February 20th, 62 AD.

My dear Lucilius,

Your recent letter reveals a mind troubled by thoughts of mortality, and I would be remiss if I did not address this most human of concerns. The fear of death haunts us all, yet few examine this fear with the clear light of reason. Let us do so now, that you might find peace in understanding.

Most people live suspended between two terrors: fear of death and the hardships of life. They dread dying, yet they struggle to truly live. This is the height of folly. We waste our days worrying about their end, forgetting that each moment spent in such worry is a moment stolen from life itself.

Consider this truth: No evil is great which is the last evil of all. Death arrives; it would be a thing to dread, if it could remain with you. But death must either not come at all, or else must come and pass away. If it does not come, you need not fear it. If it comes and passes, your suffering is brief. The anticipation of death is far worse than death itself.

I have observed that those who fear death most have lived least. They cling to life because they sense they have not yet truly experienced it. But what is this life they so desperately wish to preserve? For most, it is a series of worries, disappointments, and petty pursuits. They preserve their existence while neglecting their souls.

Let me share a practice that has brought me great peace: each evening, I rehearse my own death. This is not morbid contemplation but practical wisdom. I imagine that this day might be my last, and I ask myself: Have I lived it well? Have I been kind to those around me? Have I learned something new? Have I acted with virtue?

When you rehearse this thought daily, a remarkable transformation occurs. You begin to live more intentionally. The small irritations that once disturbed your peace reveal themselves as trivial. The grand ambitions that once drove you to distraction show their proper proportions. You discover what truly matters.

Death, you see, is not the opposite of life but its completion. A symphony is not ruined by its final note; indeed, without that ending, it would not be a symphony at all. So too with human existence. Our mortality gives weight to our choices, urgency to our love, and meaning to our moments.

But you may ask: “Seneca, what of the pain of dying? What of leaving behind those we love?” These are reasonable concerns, but consider them clearly. Physical pain is temporary and can be endured, especially when we remember that it will soon end forever. As for leaving loved ones, remember that grief is the price of love, and those who truly care for us would not wish us to suffer merely to extend their time with us.

I have seen many men die, both brave and cowardly, and I can tell you this: the manner of dying reveals the manner of living. Those who have lived with courage face death with equanimity. Those who have spent their days in fear die as they lived - in terror.

There is a story I heard of a gladiator who, when asked how he faced death so calmly, replied: “I have died a thousand deaths already in the arena. This one is no different.” He understood that courage comes from practice, from facing what we fear rather than fleeing from it.

Fortune can change in an instant, my friend. The wealthy man can become poor, the healthy can fall ill, the powerful can lose their position. The only thing that remains constant is our capacity to respond with wisdom and virtue. Death is simply fortune’s final test of our philosophical preparation.

Here is wisdom that has served me well: live each day as if it were both your first and your last. With the wonder of the first and the urgency of the last. Appreciate the simple gifts - the warmth of sunlight, the taste of bread, the smile of a friend. These pleasures remain available to us right up to our final moment.

Do not postpone living until you have resolved all your fears about dying. The two are inextricably linked. The person who learns to live fully discovers that death has lost much of its terror. When you have truly tasted life, death becomes not a tragedy but a natural conclusion.

I close with this observation: we spend enormous energy trying to add years to our lives, but little effort adding life to our years. A single day lived with full awareness and virtue is worth more than a thousand days spent in fearful existence.

The wise man does not fear death because he has learned to live. Learn to live, dear friend, and death will take care of itself.

Farewell, Seneca

P.S. - Practice this exercise: tonight, before sleep, reflect on the day as if it were complete. Feel gratitude for what was given, forgiveness for what went wrong, and contentment with what was accomplished. If you can sleep peacefully with this practice, you are learning to die well.