I think about death a lot. Not in a morbid way, but as a reminder that our time here is limited and that life is far too precious to waste on things that don’t really matter.
Recently, I attended the funeral of my friend’s dad. As I was getting ready, my daughter asked, “Did you know her dad? Is that why you’re going?”
When I explained that I hadn’t known him, she was genuinely surprised. In her mind, you only went to a funeral if you knew the person who had died.
It led to a conversation about something I feel strongly about. Sometimes we don’t attend funerals for the person who has died. We go for the people they’ve left behind.
I wanted to be there for my friend, who had just experienced the profound loss of her father. I couldn’t take away her grief or find words that would make things better, but I could show up. Sometimes our presence is the most meaningful thing we can offer.
In Sikhi, we have the beautiful concept of sangat, the importance of community and coming together. For me, this is what community looks like in practice. Not just celebrating the happy occasions, but standing beside people when life is difficult.
Why I Think About Death So Often
My Sikh faith has profoundly shaped my relationship with death. Throughout Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji, we’re reminded of the temporary nature of life. The saloks of Baba Farid Ji reflect on ageing and mortality, while the compositions of Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji in Salok Mahalla Nauva encourage us to consider how we’re spending our precious time.
Rather than finding these teachings frightening, I find them liberating. They remind me that none of us is guaranteed tomorrow, so why spend today worrying about what other people think, holding grudges or putting off the things that matter?
The other reason I think about death so often is my gorgeous masi ji, my aunt, who was diagnosed with breast cancer at 48 and died at just 50.
Losing her around a decade ago changed me profoundly. As I’ve grown older, I’ve become even more conscious of just how young she was and how much life she still had ahead of her.
Her death made me realise how much time we spend waiting. Waiting until the children are older, until work gets quieter, until we have more money or until we finally feel confident enough to pursue something.
I’ve since climbed Kilimanjaro, trekked to Everest Base Camp, built Asian Women Mean Business and taken opportunities that have terrified me. I know that losing my masi ji has influenced my determination to live courageously, because I don’t want to reach the end of my life wishing I’d done more with it.
Forgiveness, Resentment and Making Peace
One of the most beautiful things about my masi ji was how she approached the end of her life. She made an effort to put things right, having difficult conversations, forgiving people and asking for forgiveness herself.
I’ve thought about that many times over the years. Why do we wait until somebody is dying to say the things that matter? Why do we hold on to resentment for years, sometimes decades, when life is so incredibly short?
A few years ago, I had a very different experience when an extended family member passed away following a terminal illness. I was told not to attend his funeral because he had apparently expressed a wish that people who hadn’t visited him during his illness shouldn’t come.
I remember feeling quite taken aback. Of course, grief and terminal illness are complicated, and I can understand that someone might feel hurt or abandoned. I also appreciate why families would want to honour the wishes of someone who has died.
But the experience made me reflect on how much emotional energy we can spend keeping score. Who called, who visited, who disappointed us and who wasn’t there when we needed them.
I couldn’t help comparing it with my masi ji, who had chosen to make peace where she could. I don’t know what was in his heart, and I wouldn’t presume to judge someone’s final days, but I know I don’t want to reach the end of my own life still carrying resentment.
In Sikhi, we’re taught about haumai, often understood as ego or self-centredness. That attachment to our own pride, hurt and need to be right can influence so much of how we behave.
And let’s face it, we’re all guilty of it sometimes!
But there’s a difference between having healthy boundaries and holding on to bitterness. You can forgive someone without inviting them back into your life. You can choose peace without pretending that what happened was acceptable.
For me, remembering that life is temporary helps put these things into perspective. I don’t want to waste precious years worrying about people who don’t like me, replaying old arguments or waiting for somebody else to make the first move.
When I’m Gone, Please Come to My Funeral!
All of this has made me think about my own funeral, and I have one request. When I’m gone, please come!
If I’ve ever wronged you, knowingly or unknowingly, I ask for your forgiveness. And if you’ve wronged me, I hope I’ve already forgiven you. Life is far too short to carry that kind of energy around.
We don’t all have to agree, be friends or even like each other. But I certainly don’t want to be lying on my deathbed worrying about an argument from ten years ago!
I’d much rather my funeral be an opportunity for people to come together, remember the good times and support those I’ve left behind. Because funerals aren’t just about the person who has died. They’re also about the people who are grieving.
What Would You Do Differently If You Knew Your Time Was Limited?
There’s a question I keep coming back to. If you truly accepted that your time here was limited, what would you change?
Would you finally start that business, book that trip, have that difficult conversation or stop worrying about what everybody thinks?
As women, particularly South Asian women, so many of us have been conditioned to put everyone else’s needs before our own. We can spend years trying to meet expectations, keep the peace and avoid disappointing people, whilst quietly putting our own dreams on hold.
But living intentionally means recognising that our time matters too. It’s about having the courage to make choices that reflect our values, to pursue meaningful experiences and to stop waiting for permission to live the lives we want.
My daughter’s innocent question about attending a funeral reminded me of something important. We don’t have to know someone’s pain to show compassion, and we don’t have to wait until someone is gone to show them how much they mean to us.
Death isn’t just a reminder that life ends. It’s a reminder to make the most of the life we have.
So tell people you love them. Show up when it matters. Make peace where you can. Take the opportunities, have the adventures and stop sweating the small stuff.
And when my time comes, you’re all welcome at my funeral. But until then, I’d much rather we met for a cup of chai. ❤️
Listen to the Podcast
In my latest solo episode, Life’s Too Short to Die Holding a Grudge, I share more about my experiences of grief, forgiveness, Sikh teachings and how thinking about death has shaped the way I live.
Listen to the full episode on the Asian Women Mean Business podcast, it is on Spotify
