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I’m not sure if it’s a result of the significant life changes I’ve experienced in recent years—like coming out as queer, ending my marriage, distancing myself from the faith I was raised in, relocating, and living through a pandemic—or if I’m simply reaching an age where the reality of mortality feels more pressing. Lately, I’ve found myself in the grips of a persistent, low-key existential crisis.
My thoughts often spiral in this way: One day, I will die. That’s fine; death is a natural part of life—something I can accept. But what about my consciousness? What happens to my awareness after I pass? The notion of my consciousness either vanishing entirely or transforming into something unrecognizable is frightening.
The general belief is that our thoughts shape our identity. So, what occurs when those thoughts disappear or evolve to a point where they no longer reflect who we currently think we are? Are we still ourselves, or do we simply … cease to exist? How can we be self-aware one moment and then not exist the next? It’s unsettling to think that I might not feel any sorrow over my absence because I won’t be here to experience it. That thought doesn’t offer me much comfort.
I ponder these questions while doing everyday tasks like washing dishes, folding laundry, walking my dog, or driving to medical appointments. My mind dives deeper into a nihilistic perspective—if we’re just fleeting bits of consciousness on a tiny rock orbiting an inconsequential star, why should we care about anything? Does anything truly have significance? If nothing lasts forever, what’s the point?
Even for those who believe in spiritual or religious notions of an afterlife, it’s likely that whatever form our consciousness takes post-death will be vastly different from our current experience. All the elements that make us who we are, including our thoughts and feelings, will have transformed. The things we devote our time and energy to—like home decor, skincare routines, or workplace conflicts—might seem trivial when considering the vastness of the universe and the endlessness of time. Even if one goes to Heaven, they won’t go as their current selves.
But then again, if nothing is permanent and nothing truly matters, then perhaps the very existence of anything that feels significant, along with the experience of feelings themselves, is a miracle.
Consciousness is miraculous, regardless of your beliefs about its origin. Whether you think it arose from a random collision of particles that evolved into self-awareness or that it was intentionally designed by a higher power, the fact remains: it’s astonishing. Consider the countless lifeforms on this planet that cannot recognize themselves in a mirror or contemplate their own mortality. It truly is a marvel.
I am particularly anxious about losing my consciousness in relation to my loved ones. I came out as queer in my late thirties after years of uncertainty about my identity. Now that I’ve discovered this profound love for someone, I can’t help but worry about the limited time I have to share it. My partner lives over 1,400 miles away, and I fear I might pass before we can fully live our lives together. Even if we enjoy a solid forty years, what happens after we die? What about my children? Where does our love go when we are no longer alive? The thought is terrifying.
I understand that energy transforms, but I also recognize that my consciousness and the emotions I feel—including my love for my partner and my children—are rooted in brain chemistry. What happens when my brain ceases to function? It frightens me that all the love and connections I’ve built throughout my life may simply … vanish upon my death. I understand why people cling to religion; it’s comforting to believe that upon death, our consciousness and that of our loved ones will not be extinguished but merely altered. If that were true, death could be seen as a reunion. I wish I could believe it, but doing so would be to deceive myself in an attempt to escape my fear of mortality.
When I search for “existential crisis,” I often find links to healthcare or wellness sites that connect these thoughts with mental health issues like anxiety and depression. While I can see how these fears could become overwhelming, for me, it’s not something I want to suppress or turn away from. Instead, it feels like a significant elephant in the room that I’m surprised we don’t discuss more openly. Acknowledging the preciousness of life while we’re still alive could provide clarity. When viewed in the right light, existential crises can foster gratitude and empathy for others.
My ongoing existential crisis doesn’t dominate my every thought; however, when it does surface, bringing with it a wave of fear regarding my impermanence, I strive to redirect that energy into appreciating the miracle of being alive—even if it’s merely while folding laundry or shopping for groceries. After all, if I view consciousness as a miracle, it makes sense not to squander my time worrying about how long I’ll possess it.
So, on most days when these thoughts arise, I choose to focus on gratitude for my consciousness and commit to making the most of it—right after I finish my taxes.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, Jessica Lane explores the depths of her ongoing existential crisis, spurred by significant life changes and a growing awareness of mortality. She grapples with the nature of consciousness, the fear of losing connection with loved ones, and the challenge of finding meaning in a transient existence. Through the lens of gratitude and a recognition of the miracle of life, she seeks to channel her existential thoughts into a more positive perspective.
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