During high school, I would regularly lie awake at night, haunted by thoughts of death. I would sweat profusely, imagining myself buried alone in a cold, dark coffin, until exhaustion finally carried me into restless sleep. 

A few times, I tried to make sense of it by asking my parents what they thought about death. My dad mentioned that neither he nor his father was afraid of the concept but instead were fearful of wasting their lives. My mother, meanwhile, would advise me to avoid thinking about an outcome that was far in the future for someone my age. 

Both perspectives, while appreciated, did not provide me any particular bliss; I found my father’s lack of concern quizzical and viewed the assumption that death would not come for the young absurd.

Regardless, I don’t think my parents were able to understand why exactly I was afraid of dying. In all fairness, I was unable to as well. On the surface, a fear of death seems simple — the mere fear of not existing. However, a fear of death is ultimately a fear of losing life.

Looking back, I could not bear the thought of all that I loved slipping away: the loud laughter in my childhood home, the silent evenings in a bookstore. It wasn’t only the thought of losing the past that vexed me; I feared every moment in the future that I might squander.

I distinctly remember one family vacation when I was 10, where my parents took me on a hike. When we returned to the campgrounds after eight boring hours, I discovered that we could have been on a biking trip with the other kids in our group instead. I cried while repeating, “I just lost eight hours of my life.”

Even as a child, I was desperate to hold onto time. Yet, in lamenting the loss of eight hours, I lost at least one more.

Earlier, I had highlighted my parents’ lack of understanding of my fear. Now, years later, I realize that my father’s fear of wasting life is where my fear of death stems from.

That is to say, even those who claim not to fear death still feel the weight of mortality. Some of us experience anxiety at the prospect of an inevitable end, others, like my father, seek perfection in how they live.

The detriment of perfection might seem like an oxymoronic phrase; however, a pathological search for the ideal is perilous. Regrettably, most of us fall victim to the trap of endless self-betterment. We drown ourselves in social media content on how to be better, live better and do better.

A significant portion of the internet comprises the manosphere, toxic and unnecessary advice and falsely romanticized concepts. Overall, the more we consume, the more we feel as if we should tinker with every aspect of our being.

Moreover, as college students, we are the largest group targeted by these influencer consultants; the media is stacked with videos telling 20-year-olds how to live.

The people distributing this advice are often not even professionals in their fields. We end up with an infinite supply of unsubstantiated pieces of advice that contradict one another due to their individual subjectivity. Unfortunately, as none of us can do everything at once, we consistently fall short of society’s expectations, leading to a sense of unlimited self-doubt and self-reproach.

It’s essential to question whether this compulsive cycle of perfectionism and despondency is, in fact, our best option. In retrospect, when trying to conserve our lives, we often forget to truly live.

We might go to the grave with a stuffed LinkedIn profile, clear skin and a perfectly curated Instagram feed; yet, will we look back and have any memories that we truly made for ourselves, allowing us to pass on with the peace of knowing we truly lived?

The truth is that our lives will never feel meaningful if our actions do not mean anything to us personally.

Instead of focusing on how a moment could be perfected, take a step back and recognize the value in imperfection for it’s what makes a moment uniquely yours. Admittedly, if I were to appreciate the hiking trip without focusing on the possibility of a better activity, I would have a more positive memory I could look back on.

In abandoning the need to conquer mortality, by trying to extend it with allegedly “better” moments, we may all start to see death as simply another aspect of existence rather than the great, intimidating end we must prepare for.

In the words of American poet Nikki Giovanni, “I hope I die warmed by the life I tried to live,” whatever that life may be.