The more deaths you die in this lifetime, the more fully you live. Each time you release an old version of yourself, each time you shed a layer of shame or dissolve a defense mechanism that once shielded you from life’s wounds, you are composting what no longer serves. Every shift in awareness, every act of surrender, every mindful choice to embrace the natural rhythm rather than the seductive grasp of convenience—these are the sacred deaths that make space for new life to take root. This is the true cycle of transformation, the ebb and flow our culture so desperately avoids.
But what is the cost of this avoidance? As and Acupuncturist, I hold space for hospice clients, who at the end of their life are in the dying process. I’ve witnessed countless transitions over the past 3 years of doing this work. It’s not my full time job, as the experience needs to be balanced with the joys of supporting mothers and fertility, or even calls for the lightness of doing microneedling and offering an alternative to toxic beauty standards with natural, radiant alternatives. This balance is necessary, but I engage in this sometimes difficult work because of that need for balance. I’m drawn to the mystery of transformational experiences including the ultimate death, but as a culture avoidance is the standard and again the price is a steep one, measured not in dollars but in lost vitality, in souls lingering in limbo, bodies plugged into machines, minds numbed by an endless stream of pharmaceuticals and television programs. It is the cost of waiting—for a miracle, for a redemption, for a promised land beyond the veil, rather than daring to fully inhabit this moment, this body, this breath. The cost is a slow, lingering departure, a fading rather than a crossing. And in the waiting, so much life is lost.
We have been taught that death is the enemy, that to let go is to fail. But what if we have it all wrong? What if death, like birth, is a portal, a threshold, an initiation into the great mystery? What if honoring death meant honoring life—not with grief alone, but with reverence, with celebration, with the full-bodied acknowledgment that something sacred has occurred?
I have seen deaths that were radiant, woven with dignity, love, and presence. I have witnessed souls depart wrapped in the embrace of those who cherished them, their last breaths carrying the weight of a life fully lived. I have also seen the other kind—where the body holds on long after the spirit has grown weary, tethered by fear, regret, and an unwillingness to release what was never truly grasped to begin with.
The difference? Openness. Those who live with curiosity, who allow themselves to be humbled by mystery, who choose love over judgment and presence over distraction, meet death as an old friend rather than a thief in the night. Those who have composted their fears along the way, who have surrendered their old skins time and again, do not resist when the final shedding comes.
If we, as a culture, could meet death with the same reverence we meet birth, not as an ending but as a sacred transformation, how might our world change? I imagine a world where life is honored at every turn—not in fleeting, performative gestures, but in a deep, sustainable reverence for the interconnectedness of all things. A world where we compost not out of obligation or fad, but out of devotion, returning what has been given, nourishing the next cycle, understanding that we, too, will one day be returned. A world where what we value is not dictated by profit margins, but by the measure of what truly sustains life. Water, real food, love, clean air, connection.
If we embraced the wisdom of death, I have no doubt we would cherish life more fiercely. We would create with intention, love without reserve, and live in such a way that, when the time comes to cross that final threshold, we could do so with peace, knowing we have given everything to the great unfolding.
May we die many deaths before our final one. May we compost, may we surrender, may we open. And in doing so, may we finally learn what it means to live.
I write this as the season of death, darkness and stillness, yields once again the the rebirth of spring. Did we die enough this season, did we let go and rest? Did we shed what was needed in order to fully inhale the new possibilities of spring? The beauty is that we have cycles upon cycles and even if nature is yielding to the return of the sun, there is still possibilities to let go and shed what is needing to die.
After all, people die in the spring and summer, too.
Did reading this make you squirm? Did you feel uncomfortable? Can you be open to reflecting and sitting with that discomfort? follow it to the root of where it wraps around a belief that was seeded in your past or in the culture. Is it time for pruning?
In radiance and gratitude for life and death,
Lauren Howell