What Facing Death Taught Me About Truly Living via /r/gratitude

I walked into the hospital today for a short visit but the second I stepped in, it hit me. That place, that smell, it pulled me straight back to the night I almost died. It felt like stepping into my own trauma. And suddenly I was back there reliving it all. Walking past the ER, the surgical floor, the waiting room, the sterile scent of antiseptic. The quiet panic in people’s eyes. It dragged me back to a night I’ve tried to block out for so long.

3rd February 2024. The day my life split in two. The night I was rushed to a hospital barely conscious after a horrific accident. My head was bleeding profusely, I didn’t know if I was going to survive. I was barely conscious from the moment I was picked up until I was pushed toward the OT. But in those blurry moments I remember one thing with complete clarity, I was begging God not to let me die over and over again. Not for myself, I wasn’t afraid of death. I was scared of what I would leave behind, the people who wouldn’t know how to survive without me. I wasn’t afraid of pain. I wasn’t even afraid of dying. I was afraid of the void I’d leave in the lives of my parents whose world would collapse. I begged not to be spared for me but for them. Even now I get chills remembering that moment when in my mind I kept begging God to not let me die not let me die for them.

That night changed me, but what followed changed me even more. I underwent major surgery. And then six months in bed. Half a year of stillness. Every single day, every single second, I sat with helplessness. For half a year I couldn’t move like I used to. Couldn’t live like I used to. Every single day, every single second, I felt the helplessness sink in. I watched the world go on from a bed I couldn’t rise from. And slowly I felt everything I had built, my plans, my identity, my life my illusion of control begin to crumble. I had never known that kind of stillness. That kind of silence. It was suffocating. I felt my strength fade, my confidence unravel. My sense of control vanish.

But the sharpest pain wasn’t physical, it was emotional. It was watching people disappear. People I had loved like family. People I thought were like my family. People I believed would be there for life. In those months, I saw everyone’s true colors. Everything I thought I had was stripped to its truth. I saw how fame fades when you’re no longer shining. I saw how people love the strong version of you not the vulnerable one. It broke me. But strangely it also cleared me. Beneath the wreckage I was left with something real: clarity.

Oddly enough now I see the accident and all that followed as a blessing. A blessing in brutal disguise. It forced me to see everything clearly. Fame, status, attention, convenience, empty friendships. It made me see through the illusions. It made me understand what truly matters. It made me confront the reality of people and of myself. I began to see through the noise, the image, the masks, the titles. I started seeing life as it actually is: messy, fragile, sacred. And full of moments we miss when we think we’re invincible.

So when I walked through that hospital again, I felt the weight of what I survived. I saw beds with people hooked up to machines, not knowing if they’d ever open their eyes again. And I thought why do we wait until everything is at risk to start valuing what we already have? Why does it take almost losing it all up to finally wake us up?

When I stepped out of the hospital, I looked up at the sky and thought this is a privilege. This breath. This moment. This heartbeat. I don’t think anyone truly understands how fragile life is until they feel it slipping through their fingers. Until you’re lying there unsure if you’ll ever stand again. Until time becomes liquid and identity dissolves into nothing but instinct and prayer. Before I chased perfection, control, timelines, plans. But nearly dying, it humbles you. It unclenches your grip. It brings you to your knees. And from there you start to notice the smallest things: the warmth of your morning sunshine, the way sunlight filters through your window, the sound of people you love. That night rewired me. But those six months they reprogrammed my entire system. Once you come that close to the edge, you do not walk away the same. You feel life differently. Sharper. Slower. More sacred. You stop pretending you have forever. And you stop entertaining what isn’t real.

I learned that being alive isn’t just about a heartbeat. It’s about presence. It’s about gratitude. It’s about recognizing that your soul still has something left to do here. That moment didn’t change me because my life flashed before my eyes. It changed me because it made everything fall away and revealed what truly matters underneath: love. People. Purpose. Presence. Since then I’ve never looked at anything the same way. I don’t care for shallow things. I wake up with gratitude burned into my bones. With reverence for every breath.

Most of us live like we have time. We chase things that don’t matter. We argue. We numb out. We carry resentment for years. We sleepwalk through days that could have been miracles. But I’ve learned to stop waiting. To stop chasing illusions. Because once you’ve seen death’s shadow that close when you’ve stared at the ceiling for months wondering when you’ll rise again you don’t play with life anymore. You honor it.

I shouldn’t have survived but I did and I will never forget why I begged to live. So If you’re reading this and you’ve been caught in the noise the comparing, the chasing, the stressing over things that won’t matter five years from now just pause. Breathe. You are here. You are alive. You have another moment. Another chance. Not everyone does. Don’t wait for a brush with death to remember what really matters. Let go of what weighs heavy. Be where your feet are. Your life is happening now, don’t sleepwalk through it.

If you’ve been floating through your days on autopilot, wake up. Don’t wait for tragedy to remind you that life is temporary. Don’t wait until your body is broken and you’re whispering desperate prayers to realize how badly you want to live. Start treating your life like the one shot it actually is.

So today walking through that hospital, it hit me like a wave. I shouldn’t have survived that night but I did. And that completely rewired me. I still don’t know why I was spared but I do know this, every breath I take now is borrowed light. And I will never ever waste it.