I am not afraid of dying.
I am afraid of not having lived fully — of leaving this world with pieces of myself still unwritten.

How do you measure a life that feels unfinished?
Is it in memories left behind, in names whispered after we’re gone, in the quiet ache of absence?
I wonder who will speak my name when I’m no longer here.
Will I be loved?
Will I be truly missed?
Will my children carry stories of me like sacred heirlooms?

Mortality is not a shadow I run from.
It’s a mirror I stare into — often.
Some days, it unsettles me.
Other days, it stirs something holy in me — a fire to live, to really live.
To touch lives.
To leave fingerprints on hearts that don’t wash away with time.

Since I was young, I’ve thought about the after —
not in fear, but in longing.
A longing to be more than dust carried by the wind.
A longing to echo.

I think of the names etched into eternity —
the philosophers who questioned everything,
the warriors who bled for something,
the leaders who moved mountains with words.
And then I think of my own name —
how easily it could fade.

But more than fame, I crave peace.
To lie on my deathbed with a full chest and a quiet mind,
to know I loved deeply, tried fiercely,
and left no “what if” behind.

I know that’s rare. I know we all carry regret.
Still, I pray mine are few.

I was raised in faith. I grew up on pews and prayer.
I believe our lives are written in ink we cannot see —
that every move, even the missteps,
pulls us toward a place we’re meant to reach.

And all I ask — all I truly hope —
is that the place I’m headed is warm.
A place where I am content.
Where my spirit can rest.
Where I know, in the end,
that I lived as fully as I could.

This isn’t a eulogy. It’s just a moment. A release.
A whisper from my soul to yours.
The older I get, the more I think about the end —
not with dread,
but with the hope that it pushes me
to become the man I was always meant to be.

-Omari Knight