I imagine death as that gentle moment when someone scoops you up from the couch, half-asleep, after dozing off during a family gathering. You feel the warmth of familiar arms carrying you to bed, still hearing the soft echoes of laughter and love drifting in from the other room.

There’s no fear, no resistance—just a quiet surrender, like letting yourself be taken to bed when you were a child, trusting that you’re safe and cared for. As you drift, you still hear the soft, comforting sounds of life continuing in the other room—the laughter, the music, the loving voices of the people who made your world so rich. There’s a sense of completion, a feeling that everything has come full circle, and you can finally let go, knowing you’ve left pieces of yourself in the lives of those you loved.

In that moment, it’s as if you’re wrapped in a warmth that transcends this world, a love that reaches beyond what you can touch or see. You feel the presence of those who have passed before you, waiting to welcome you with open arms, like returning to a place you’ve always known but haven’t seen in a while. There’s no loneliness, no darkness—just the gentle transition from one form of life to another, as natural as moving from one room to the next.

Death, in this way, is not an ending but a homecoming. It’s the quiet comfort of knowing you’re being carried, not into the unknown, but back to a place of peace, where every struggle, every joy, and every memory lives on. It’s the embrace of something larger than ourselves, something that says, “You’ve done enough, you are enough, and now it’s time to rest.”

And so you go, not with fear, but with gratitude and a serene heart, knowing that love is eternal and that even in leaving, you are part of the laughter and light that fill the lives of those who carry on.