I was born into a practicing Muslim family in a deeply religious society. I mention this at the outset because my upbringing shaped my understanding of life, death, and the afterlife from an early age. By the time I was four, I knew that the Creator had made me just as He had made everyone else. I saw people die, without exception. And I was certain that an afterlife awaited us all—I knew it better than I knew my own face.

At six or seven, an intense fear of losing my parents took root in my mind. Nothing in my daily life suggested such a loss, but television dramas depicting children losing their parents left me overwhelmed with emotion. I started imagining how my parents might die. Death, I knew, was inevitable, and the thought consumed me. By age seven, I was locking myself in the bathroom, crying over the future loss of my parents.

This fear became a daily struggle, persisting for 30 years. Then, reality struck—my parents began developing terminal illnesses. I finally understood that accepting life’s natural course was the only way forward. When my father passed in September 2013, I actively participated in his burial. But years earlier, when my eldest son died in 2004, I couldn’t even bear to look at his lifeless body—denial had paralyzed me. That painful experience gave me nearly a decade to prepare for my father’s passing.

By the time my mother passed in December 2014, I had gained even more acceptance—at least for her death. But I had not yet faced my own mortality. I still lived as though I were immortal. In her final month, I spent most of my time by her side, holding her hand while reading about the biological process of dying. I saw each stage unfold before my eyes. Her death marked the end of my 32-year-long fear of losing my parents.

Afterward, I saw my life differently. In May 2015, I left my career as a psychiatry teacher and clinician to pursue my passion for research writing. By 2016, circumstances led me to leave my homeland and start over in a foreign country. This transition brought new fears—what if I was forced to return? The thought was unbearable.

To cope, I reframed the immigration process as a medical diagnosis: if I was granted residency, it would be like receiving a clean bill of health. If denied, it would be like being diagnosed with a terminal illness. For the first time, I began thinking about my own death. I lived with this uncertainty for two years, until 2019, when I was granted indefinite residency. That moment felt like the opposite of death—it was life itself.

As I adjusted to my new life, I realized how unprepared I was for my own demise. Despite knowing about death and the afterlife for over four decades—and even proposing hypotheses in 2007 about how belief in the afterlife could help people accept death—I still hadn’t fully embraced my own mortality.

Then came the early COVID-19 lockdowns. As a healthcare worker, I couldn’t stay home. Every day, I left for work knowing that I might not return. The fear of death became real. Yet, in those moments, I found deep meaning in my life—perhaps the most profound meaning I had ever known.

For the first time, I didn’t just believe in the afterlife—I also found peace in the present. With death looming over me, I realized that I could truly live while preparing for the inevitable. For the first time, the thought of death didn’t bring fear; it brought clarity. And, after 40 years, I finally reached a state of harmony between life, death, and what comes after.