There is a particular word in psychology for the fear of death. It is called thanatophobia. The word is heavy, and perhaps technical, but it speaks to something common to all people. Almost everyone, in quiet moments, feels a twinge of unease at the thought of the end. It is not only the thought of pain or of leaving loved ones behind. It is the mystery itself, the simple fact that death is the great unknown.
Human beings are uneasy before the unknown. A child’s first day at school, an adult’s first public speech, or even the anticipation of meeting a new community can stir nervousness. Death, however, is not simply one unknown among many. It is the ultimate one. No one can describe the experience itself, for no one returns from it in ordinary life to tell us. This uncertainty makes fear natural, even for the most courageous.
And yet, fear is not the whole story. Alongside it there can be trust, gratitude, even curiosity. To know that death is certain may free us from trivial concerns. To admit our trembling before it may also make us gentler to one another. The paradox is that the fear of death, far from weakening us, may become a source of depth in life.
First Encounters with Death
Most people meet death not first in their own bodies but in those of others. For me, the clearest early lessons came with the death of grandparents and neighbors. I also remember the shock of losing schoolmates far too soon. Someone who laughed only days before was suddenly absent. Someone who seemed as permanent as the furniture was now gone. These early encounters planted the seed of mortality in my imagination.
When my father passed away, it became one of those defining moments in my life. No matter how much one may prepare, the loss of a parent reshapes the sense of time. Suddenly the family line feels shorter. The role of carrying memory and responsibility shifts. It is not simply sadness, it is also the recognition that one’s own generation is now closer to the front of the line.
The death of peers struck even harder. It contradicted the expectation that death belongs only to the old. It interrupted the ordinary rhythm of time. Such losses reminded me that death is not bound to age. It is a possibility at every stage. The seed of awareness became a more urgent voice, asking me to reflect on how I was living.
The Pandemic and Near Death
The global pandemic brought death near to countless people, not only the elderly. Suddenly the news carried daily numbers of the dead. Hospitals were filled, and stories spread of families unable to say farewell. For some, this was a distant statistic. For others, it was a deeply personal wound.
My own encounter with severe COVID-19 in August 2021 was not simply a brush with illness but a brush with mortality. Severe pneumonia, hospitalization, and the uncertainty of survival are not experiences easily forgotten. After such moments, life is never quite the same. The days afterward feel like borrowed time. Every morning begins with a quiet recognition: I am still here.
Psychologists sometimes call this post-traumatic growth. A crisis strips away illusions, but it can also reveal resilience. To come back from the edge is to see that ordinary routines are extraordinary gifts. Eating, breathing, walking outside, laughing with friends, all appear brighter. Death does not vanish as a fear, but life gains a sharper outline.
The Countdown of Life
As people age, the perspective on death shifts. In midlife, the horizon seems decades away, though the shadow of accidents or illness may lurk. But in the eighties and nineties, the reality is closer. Many contemporaries have already passed. Reunions shrink in number. Birthdays are no longer markers of age but celebrations of survival.
I see this in my own mother’s generation. At eighty, every year is felt as a gift, not a guarantee. The phrase “I was allowed to live one more year” carries a humble gratitude. It is not resignation, but a kind of joy. Even frailty can be endured when every day is seen as extra, as something unearned but granted.
For me, watching this is a lesson. Death does not need to be only a dark horizon. It can also be the backdrop that makes life luminous. The countdown, though sobering, can become a call to savor. To live with awareness of finitude is not only to prepare for the end but to sharpen the present.
Dr. Shigeaki Hinohara’s Example
Few lives illustrate this as vividly as that of Dr. Shigeaki Hinohara. Born in 1911, he was not especially healthy as a child. Yet he lived to 105, remaining active, writing, and teaching almost to his last days. His story is not one of denying age but of receiving life as entrusted.
A turning point came in 1970, when he was a passenger on Japan Airlines Flight 351. The plane was hijacked by radicals, and though the incident ended without bloodshed, the experience marked him. He later said that from then on he felt his remaining years were not his own possession. They were given, whether by chance, by fortune, or by God.
This attitude freed him. He did not chase anti-aging fads or cling to longevity as an idol. Instead, he treated each day as borrowed. His Christian background reinforced this. In his view, the years were entrusted by God. To live gratefully was the fitting response. The result, ironically, was extraordinary longevity. But that was not the goal. The goal was to live faithfully with the life he had, however long.
The Unknown and the Hope
Even with such wisdom, the unknown remains. No philosophy can erase the fact that death itself is mysterious. The thought of the final moment, of consciousness fading, is not easy to face. It is natural to be uneasy. Yet different traditions offer different ways of holding this mystery.
In Christianity, death is not seen as erasure but as transition. The language of the New Testament is of falling asleep, of being received, of awaiting resurrection. The hope is not only of survival but of reunion, of being remembered by God in eternity. For Hinohara, this faith softened the sting of uncertainty. He could live energetically because he trusted that death was not the end.
Buddhism offers another picture. To die is to release the illusion of permanence. Fear comes from clinging, peace comes from letting go. The self is not fixed but flowing, and death is part of that flow. Secular views may speak of legacy, of memory carried in the lives of others. None of these dissolve the unknown, but they show ways to live without being paralyzed by it.
The unknown need not be solved. It can be honored. Just as a child cannot predict adulthood yet grows into it, so a person may not know what lies beyond death but can still approach it with dignity. The mystery itself may be the last teacher.
Living as If Life Is Given
What then is the practical response? It is to live as if life is given. To wake each morning with gratitude, not entitlement. To treat health not as vanity but as stewardship. To see service to others as the natural expression of borrowed time.
This is not passive acceptance. It is active thankfulness. It means enjoying meals, conversations, and work as gifts. It means caring for the body not to resist aging but to honor the temple I have borrowed. It means shaping relationships with kindness, since time with loved ones is never infinite.
Role models like Dr. Hinohara remind me of this way. He did not waste energy denying age. He poured his energy into purpose. The years came as they came, and he received them with open hands. That posture of acceptance, paradoxically, gave him strength that outlasted those who obsessed over control.
Death as Part of the Human Story
It is worth remembering that death is not a strange interruption of life. It is part of the human story. Just as birth was an experience we all passed through without choice, so will death be. In that sense, it is not abnormal but universal.
The fear remains because it is the last threshold. Yet to frame it as part of the same story as birth changes the tone. What we entered once, we will leave once. Both entry and exit are mysterious, yet both are natural. The fear is real, but so is the ordinariness.
To live with this awareness is to see mortality as teacher. It teaches humility, reminding us we are not in control of everything. It teaches compassion, reminding us every person carries this fate. And it teaches focus, reminding us that what we do today matters precisely because it will not last forever.
Grateful for the Borrowed Years
What remains is not certainty but gratitude. Gratitude that life has been given, even if only for a season. Gratitude that days continue, even if the years are fewer ahead than behind. Gratitude that love, memory, and presence make life meaningful despite its brevity.
I have come to see that life is not owned but entrusted. The body is not an idol but a temple, to be respected as long as it is lent to me. Death is not to be denied but to be acknowledged as the horizon. Between now and that horizon lies the chance to live faithfully, joyfully, and generously.
Dr. Hinohara’s long life is not a promise that everyone will live to 105. It is a witness that one can live gratefully to whatever age is granted. His secret was not obsession but surrender. His peace came from trust in the One who gave life and who would receive it again.
Perhaps that is the most important lesson. Fear will visit, as it does with every unknown. But gratitude can remain, steady and quiet. To say each morning, “This day is given.” To say each evening, “I have lived what was entrusted.” That is how death loses its grip, not because we understand it, but because we honor life while we have it.
Image by Ted Erski
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