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I can’t tell if it’s the several significant life changes I’ve faced recently—coming out as queer, ending a marriage, distancing myself from my childhood beliefs, relocating, or enduring a pandemic—that have me spiraling into an ongoing existential crisis, or if it’s just my age making me more aware of my own mortality. Lately, I find myself enmeshed in a persistent, low-key state of existential dread.
My thoughts often spiral like this: Someday, I will die. Okay, that’s a truth we all face. Death is an inevitable part of life—I’m somewhat okay with that concept. But what about my consciousness? What becomes of my awareness after I pass? The notion that my consciousness might simply vanish—or transform into something unrecognizable—is chilling.
The prevailing belief is that our thoughts shape our identity. So, what happens when these thoughts cease or evolve to the point where they no longer reflect the person I think I am? Are we still ourselves, or do we simply … cease to exist? How can we be self-aware one moment and then, in the next, be non-existent? Is it reassuring to think that I won’t feel sadness over my own absence, since I won’t be present to experience it? I don’t find that comforting at all.
These thoughts invade my mind while I do mundane tasks like washing dishes, folding laundry, walking my dog, or commuting to medical appointments. My musings often lead me to a near-nihilistic perspective—if we’re just fleeting consciousnesses on a tiny rock orbiting an insignificant star, why should we care at all? Does anything hold value? If nothing lasts, what’s the point?
Even if you believe in spiritual or religious notions of an afterlife, it’s likely that your consciousness will be fundamentally altered post-death. Everything that constitutes your identity will change. The little things we often fret about—like home decor or workplace disputes—might seem trivial in the grand scheme of the universe. Even in Heaven, you won’t be the same person you are now.
But then, if nothing is eternal and nothing truly matters, perhaps that makes any moment we treasure, and the existence of feelings themselves, a miracle.
Consciousness is extraordinary, regardless of whether you attribute its origin to random molecular interactions or divine creation. Consider the countless life forms on this planet that can’t recognize their own reflection or ponder their mortality; it is indeed miraculous.
I am particularly frightened by the thought of losing my consciousness in relation to those I love. I came out as queer in my late thirties and spent so long in uncertainty about my identity. Now that I’ve discovered who I am, I’ve found a partner whom I love deeply—yet time feels fleeting. My partner lives 1,400 miles away, and I fear I won’t get to share a life with them. Even if we have a solid few decades together, what happens after we’re gone? What about my children? Where does our love go once we pass? It’s a terrifying thought.
I can accept that energy transforms, yet I also understand that my consciousness, including all my thoughts and feelings for my partner and children, arises from chemical reactions in my brain. What happens when my brain is no more? The fear that all the love I’ve experienced and the connections I’ve made could just … vanish is daunting. I see why people cling to faith; it’s comforting to think that when we die, our consciousness and that of our loved ones might not simply disappear but rather transform in some way. I wish I could believe that, but to claim so would feel like lying to myself to escape my fear of mortality.
When I search for “existential crisis,” I find articles linking such thoughts to mental health concerns like anxiety and depression. While I understand how these fears could become overwhelming, I don’t want to ignore them. To me, it’s like a massive elephant in the room that we rarely discuss. Acknowledging the fleeting nature of life could provide perspective that fosters gratitude and empathy for others.
My existential crisis doesn’t dominate my every waking moment, but when it does creep in, I strive to redirect that energy into appreciating the miracle of being alive—even in the midst of mundane tasks like folding laundry or grocery shopping. If I believe that consciousness is a miracle, it seems wise not to squander my time worrying about how long I have it.
So, on most days, I arrive at a place of gratitude for my consciousness, mixed with a resolve to make the most of it—right after I finish my taxes.
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Summary:
The article explores the author’s ongoing existential crisis amid significant life changes and the anxiety surrounding mortality and consciousness. It delves into the nature of identity and the fear of losing connections with loved ones. Ultimately, it highlights the importance of cherishing the miracle of being alive, even while grappling with these profound thoughts.