What If Today Was the Day I Died?

Have you ever noticed how we avoid thinking about death, as if ignoring it will make it disappear? It makes us uncomfortable, as if speaking of it will somehow summon it. When someone dares to mention it, we quickly hush them—“Don’t say that! Be positive!” But how long can we really avoid the inevitable? No one escapes it. No one negotiates their way out of it. It comes for all of us, regardless of wealth, status, age, or plans. And yet, we live as if we are promised tomorrow.

We have all seen it. That moment when life leaves a body, when a person who was once full of dreams, laughter, fears, and love is suddenly no more. Maybe it was a distant acquaintance, a beloved grandparent, a childhood friend, or even a stranger on the news whose life was cut short unexpectedly. Maybe it was an elder whose body had carried them as far as it could, or maybe it was someone young, whose dreams were just beginning to take shape. Either way, we’ve all been confronted with death. We all know how final it is.

I have seen death up close. I have smelled the sterile air of hospital rooms where hope lingers but often fades. I have heard the rhythmic beeping of monitors that suddenly go silent, the hushed whispers of doctors delivering news no one wants to hear. I have felt the weight of a lifeless hand, once warm, now cold, as if the very essence of a person had been snatched away in an instant. I have seen people lying in hospital beds, their breath slowing, their bodies betraying them, their once-bright eyes now dim and hollow. I have heard the last sighs of life escape lips that once spoke with warmth and wisdom. I have watched hands that once built, held, and created, now too weak to lift a spoon. I have stood in funerals, seeing children cry over parents they will never see again, families clutching onto memories as if doing so would keep the dead among them just a little longer.

And after the burial? Life moves on. The same people who weep over a casket will laugh at a joke a week later. The person who was the center of a family, an empire, a movement—someone whose voice once commanded rooms—will soon be a photograph on the wall, a story passed around at family gatherings, their memory kept alive only for as long as people choose to remember. So life it. We simply move on with time. We go about our lives as if it will never happen to us or a loved one anytime soon and if possible, never.

But it will. Someday, today even, might be our last day. And when our own time comes? We, too, will leave behind dreams unfulfilled. The unfinished books, the unspoken apologies, the love letters we never wrote, the places we always wanted to visit but never did.

So, what if today was the day I die? What if this is it? What would I regret? What would I wish I had said? Done? What dreams would be left unfinished? Who would I want to call just one last time? If I knew the number of my days, would I have loved more? Fought less? Taken more risks? Would I have spent less time holding grudges and more time hugging my loved ones a little tighter?

And why do we live our lives in a way that pretends we are immortal? We see death every day—on the news, in our communities, within our own families. We attend funerals, cry over loved ones, and talk about how fragile life is. And yet, when the grief fades, we fall back into old routines, back into pettiness, back into anger, into delaying our happiness for some imaginary “later” that may never come.

We have all seen it happen. We’ve watched people deteriorate, become shadows of themselves. We’ve stood by the hospital bed, helpless as they gasp for one more breath, the light in their eyes flickering like a dying flame. We’ve felt the weight of a lifeless hand in ours, looked at lips that will never speak again, that will never call our names, smile at our jokes, or whisper words of love. We have watched strong, passionate, driven people fade away before our eyes, and yet we rarely stop to ask ourselves the most important question of all: What if today was my turn?

What if today was the day my body gave up? Would it all have been worth it? Would I have lived well? Would my life have meant something? Would I have spent my time chasing what truly mattered, or would I have wasted it on things that, in the end, did not matter?

The Things We Leave Unsaid
We often walk through life carrying unspoken words in our hearts, believing that time is infinite. We assume we have another day, another chance, another tomorrow to say what truly matters. But what if we don't? What if the words we hold back—'I love you,' 'I'm sorry,' 'I forgive you'—are the very words that could have changed everything? Our silence, more than anything else, becomes the greatest regret we leave behind.

We walk around with words stuck in our throats, assuming we have time to say them later. “I love you,” “I forgive you,” “I’m sorry,” “I appreciate you”—words that could heal, mend, and strengthen relationships. But we hold them back as if we are guaranteed a tomorrow to finally say them.

We assume there will be another time to reach out to that estranged friend. Another time to apologize for the things we regret. Another day to tell our parents how much they mean to us. Another chance to say “I love you” to the people who matter. Another opportunity to live fully, to travel, to dance, to take the risks we’ve been too scared to take. But then one day, without warning, time runs out. And we are gone, leaving behind a thousand unsaid words and undone things.

What Will They Say?
When we leave this world, and the people who love us gather to remember, what will they say about us? Will they tell stories of how we made them laugh, how we lifted them up in their darkest days? Will they remember the kindness we shared, the love we gave? Will they speak our name in joy and longing, or will they simply move on, remembering us only in passing conversations?

We fear death, yet we live as though we have all the time in the world. We waste days, weeks, and years waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect conditions, the perfect opportunity. But death does not send invitations. It does not wait for us to be ready.

So why do we?
Why do we waste our time on grudges that only serve to weigh us down, when stories of those who chose to forgive show us the true path to peace? Why do we chase money while neglecting the people who truly matter? Why do we live so much in the past, drowning in regret, or in the future, where nothing is promised?

Today Is the Day
The truth is, no one wants to think about death. But avoiding the thought doesn’t make it disappear. In fact, it does the opposite—it makes us waste the little time we have.

But what if we lived differently? What if we spoke our love out loud, every day, not just on birthdays and special occasions? What if we forgave faster, held hands longer, laughed a little louder, danced more freely?

What if we stopped waiting for “someday” to become today?

Because someday, we will all be the ones lying on that bed, breath shallow, life slipping away. Someone will stand over us with tears in their eyes, remembering the things we did, the moments we shared, the love we gave—or didn’t give.

So pick up the phone. Write that message. Say the words that matter. Love as if today is your last.

Because one day… it will be. And when that day comes, let it not be filled with regret, but with the peace of knowing we lived, loved, and spoke our truth.

And if we are wise, we won’t wait until we are on our deathbeds before we start living.

So, what unfinished words sit on the tip of your tongue? Who needs to hear them before it’s too late?

#Puobabangna

By Victor Raul Puobabangna Plance from Eggu in the Upper West Region of Ghana