“I Wrote My Own Eulogy and Found Myself”

I Wrote My Own Eulogy and Found Myself

By [Ali Rehman]

There’s a strange kind of clarity that comes when you write the story of your own ending. When you sit down to imagine the words that will be spoken about you long after you’re gone, the noise of daily life quiets, and the questions that really matter start to surface.

I never thought I’d write my own eulogy. The idea of staring mortality in the face was unsettling. Like most people, I had a vague sense that life is fragile, but it remained a distant thought, easily pushed aside by the rush of obligations, distractions, and small comforts. Until one day, when everything slowed down, and I realized I wasn’t living — not really.

It happened in a quiet moment of solitude, a late afternoon sun casting golden shadows across my cluttered desk. I was restless, weighed down by the endless “to-dos” and the creeping feeling that my life was slipping through my fingers. I was busy, yes, but busy with what? Work? Worries? Waiting for some elusive moment of happiness that seemed always just out of reach?

That’s when I did something radical: I pulled out a blank notebook and wrote the words that I hoped would be said at my funeral. The eulogy I wanted people to remember — not the achievements, the possessions, or the titles, but the essence of who I truly was, or wanted to be.

I started with the obvious: “She was kind.” But what did kindness really mean? I wrote about the small moments that defined kindness — listening without judgment, offering a hand when no one asked, choosing compassion even when it was hard. Then I paused. Was I truly living with kindness, or just wearing it like a mask?

I wrote about love. “She loved fiercely, though imperfectly.” I recalled the people I held close, the mistakes I made, the times I held back for fear of being hurt. I asked myself if I was giving enough love, or holding too tightly to fear and regret.

I wrote about courage, about the silent battles I fought that no one saw, the fears I overcame, the times I chose hope over despair.

As the words flowed, something shifted. Writing my own eulogy became less about imagining an end and more about confronting the present — the choices I was making, the life I was living.

I realized I had been coasting, drifting through days without really feeling alive. I was waiting for permission — to take risks, to say no, to chase dreams, to make mistakes and learn from them. I had been living cautiously, afraid of failure, rejection, and loss.

But what if life was meant to be lived fully, in all its messy, beautiful imperfection?

That afternoon, I made a promise to myself. I would live in such a way that my eulogy wasn’t just a wish but a reflection of reality. That the kindness I spoke of would be evident in my actions, the love genuine and bold, the courage unwavering.

I began to take small steps. I reached out to people I had lost touch with, not waiting for the perfect moment. I allowed myself to say no to things that drained me. I pursued passions I had shelved for “later.” I let go of grudges that weighed heavy on my heart.

Every day became an opportunity to live intentionally, to embody the words I wanted to be remembered by.

Of course, it wasn’t easy. There were days when fear crept back in, when old habits of avoidance tried to reclaim their place. But each time, I returned to my notebook, to the eulogy that had become a roadmap — a reminder of what mattered.

Months later, I reread those words and smiled. They no longer felt like a distant hope but a testament to the life I was creating.

Writing my own eulogy taught me a profound lesson: mortality is not a shadow meant to scare us, but a light meant to guide us. The awareness of our finite time on this earth isn’t a morbid thought but a gift — a chance to live more fully, love more deeply, and be more authentically ourselves.

I found freedom in accepting that life is fragile and unpredictable. I found courage in choosing to live with intention despite uncertainty.

And most of all, I found myself — not in some grand achievement or external validation, but in the quiet moments of kindness, love, and courage that make life truly meaningful.

Now, when I wake up each morning, I carry my eulogy in my heart — not as a burden, but as a beacon. A reminder that every moment is precious, every choice matters, and that the story of my life is still being written.

Because in writing my own eulogy, I discovered the secret to living: not waiting for tomorrow, not fearing the end, but embracing the here and now with open arms and an open heart.