Death doesn’t follow our timelines

Death Waits Quietly

There’s a quiet kind of love that lives in the space between life and death. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s steady, sacred, and deeply human. I’ve had the honor of walking beside souls as they prepare to leave this world, and it’s in those raw, stripped-down moments that truth shows itself.

Years ago, during my time working in palliative care, I was called to sit with a soul nearing the end. His decline had been slow but steady. That evening, he barely moved. His breathing was shallow, his energy soft and distant, as if he were already halfway gone. I sat by his bed, held his hand, and offered a few quiet words. I thought it was the last time I’d see him.

When I returned two days later, I expected his room to be empty.

But there he was—sitting up, eating a bowl of soup. Present. Alive. Awake.

It wasn’t his time.

That moment stays with me. Because it reminded me that death doesn’t follow our timelines. No matter what the charts say or how the body appears, death comes when the soul is ready. And sometimes, that readiness is invisible to the outside world.

Palliative care is not just about pain management or making someone comfortable. It’s about witnessing. It’s about holding a sacred space for someone’s final stretch of life. It’s about giving attention, love, and dignity when the rest of the world starts to look away.

And sadly, the world does look away.

Our elders are often tucked into corners of the healthcare system, spoken about more than spoken to. Their stories go unheard. Their value gets reduced to medication lists and meal charts. But behind every aging body is a whole lifetime—a heart that still beats, a soul that still feels, even if the words are gone.

Palliative care, when offered with heart, is a powerful act of resistance against that neglect. It says: You matter, even now. Especially now.

It takes strength to love people who are dying. You have to show up fully, knowing your heart will break over and over again. But I welcome that pain, because it means I loved well. The grief that follows each transition is real—but it’s also a teacher. It reminds me that presence matters more than anything.

This work is at the center of who I am. I’m drawn to it not because it’s easy, but because it’s honest. Because being with someone as they prepare to cross over is a kind of holy ground. It's where I offer my hands, my heart, and my full attention.

And I see now more than ever—we need more of this care in our world. We need to stop turning away from death, and instead meet it with tenderness, reverence, and truth.

Because death isn’t a failure. It’s part of life. And everyone deserves to be held in love as they make that journey home.