The Power of Memento Mori: Finding Life Through Loss
At 26, I had what many would consider the perfect life. From the outside, it looked like I had it all—a stable, well-paying job at a prestigious tennis academy in Hong Kong, working with pro tennis players, and living in a luxurious complex that most people only dream about. But beneath the surface, I was struggling. Internally, I was in turmoil, wrestling with insecurities, anxiety, and a deep sense of discomfort that I couldn't quite name. My ego was my biggest enemy, and yet, I was blind to it. I knew something was wrong, but I lacked the awareness to understand the source of my inner conflict. My breath was shallow, my nights were sleepless, and I was teetering on the edge of burnout, both mentally and physically. Depression loomed over me, growing closer with each passing day.
Then, in the midst of this internal chaos, I received news that shattered my world.
Seba, one of my closest childhood friends, had passed away. I was in disbelief. We all know that life isn’t forever, that death is a part of existence, but nothing prepares you for losing someone close to you, especially someone your own age. His death hit hard, it flipped my world upside down. The pain of this loss, combined with the internal struggles I was already facing, plunged me into a very dark place.
The day after hearing the news, I called my boss and told him I couldn’t work. I closed the windows, locked myself in my room, and disappeared for a few days. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I felt guilty—I hadn’t spoken to Seba in so long, and a part of me had judged his path, the decisions he was making in his life. Now he was gone, and I was left asking for his forgiveness.
This experience had a profound effect on me. It was as if his departure had shaken something deep within my soul, forcing me to confront the darkest parts of myself. I felt myself descending into an unknown place, a depth I had never explored before. But in that darkness, something shifted. It was like a death, but also a rebirth.
After days of solitude, I finally opened the windows and stared out at the mountains. I couldn’t stop looking at the details—the textures of the trees, the shapes of the clouds. I spent hours simply admiring the beauty of nature as if seeing it for the first time. The tears that had flowed from pain were now transformed into tears of awe. That’s the closest word I can find to describe it: awe. My ego dissolved, and I was suddenly able to experience life with an intimacy I had never known. My mind wasn’t caught in the past or projecting into the future; it was fully present, effortlessly. I couldn’t stop crying, overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of life.
In that moment, all my worries—my job, my insecurities, my ego-driven concerns—vanished. I was being shown what true love is, what love for life truly means. It wasn’t an intellectual understanding; it was a profound inner experience.
And then came another realization, one that hit me like lightning: My time here is limited. Life is not an endless expanse of time; it is a fleeting moment, a fleeting opportunity. Standing at the edge of my own mortality, I saw the world in a new light. The pursuit of material success and societal validation suddenly felt trivial, dwarfed by the significance of living authentically, embracing my passions, and forging meaningful connections with others.
It was in this space of clarity that the concept of memento mori—a reminder of death—took root in my consciousness. Seba's passing became a constant reminder of the impermanence of life. The awareness of death, rather than being a source of fear, became a guiding principle for how I chose to live from that moment forward. I realized that to truly live, we must continually remember that one day we will die. This understanding deepened my appreciation for every moment, every breath, and every interaction.
The impact of that experience is something I’ll never forget. It was a turning point—a spiritual awakening that transcended mere thoughts and plunged me into a deeply experiential understanding of life and death. For the first time, I felt the urgency of life, not as a concept, but as a pulse running through my veins. And with that urgency came clarity: Life is short, and it’s meant to be lived fully, with purpose, passion, presence, and the ever-present awareness that our time here is finite.
Are you making the most of it?
Much love,
Matias