The Taste of Death

i.

Each of us will taste death. I knew this sentence. I have heard it many times. I also understood it, or at least I thought I did. Today it has taken on a different meaning. Today my father died.

ii.

I am not writing this to get sympathy. I am writing it because my head is full right now and I am trying to bring order to something that cannot be ordered.

iii.

My father had cancer for three years. Three years in which I lived in a limbo that I couldn't explain to anyone. Not completely down, but never free either. More like background noise that never stops. You wake up and know: there's something there. And no matter how hard you try to carry on as normal, it's always there.

During those three years, it was always the same: the doctors said he had a few weeks left. Then days. Then suddenly months again. Then just days again. Again and again, I thought: alright, that's it now. And then it wasn't. And then it was again. I could never really commit to anything. I was never fully focused at work. But when I was with my family, I still wanted to work, because I have goals that are bigger than me and that also mean a lot to me.

This constant back and forth tore me apart inside. I wanted to go out and see the world, build things, go all in. And at the same time, it felt wrong to even think about leaving. As if I had to choose between my future and my family. Between what I want to become and what is needed right now.

iv.

Outwardly, many people still only saw what they always saw during that time: Videos. Entertainment. Laughter. Energy.

But while I was laughing in front of the camera, I was often just unsettled in the background. Not in a way I could explain in a single sentence. More like a constant uneasiness. Like a quiet voice asking: what am I actually doing here?

I was less and less interested in pure entertainment. Not because I think it's bad. I love putting a smile on people's faces. But at some point, it felt like I was living two lives at once. One in front of the camera. One behind it.

v.

During this time, I fell in love.

It wasn't just a brief crush. I had already built a whole life in my head. I even wrote her a love letter. And looking back, I think this feeling was so intense because it came at an absolute low point. Suddenly there was something bright. Something warm. Something that felt like the future, at a time when everything else was heavy.

When it turned out that she didn't have feelings for me, I collapsed inside. Not because of her. But because in that moment I realized how much I had clung to that feeling. It was a lifeboat. And when it was gone, I was just... empty. No great sadness. No anger. Just silence.

vi.

After that, I spent two years treading water.

I kept posting. Kept trying to put a smile on people's faces. And in some ways, it was genuine. But at the same time, I was broken. And the absurd thing was: no one knew.

I didn't share my feelings with a single soul. Not my friends. Not my parents. I didn't want to burden them. They already had enough on their plates.

I was lost. I had my goals in mind, but they were so far away that they sometimes felt more like a foggy dream. I wanted to travel. I wanted to get out. I wanted to see the world. But I also wanted to be with my family. And I didn't know how to do both at the same time.

vii.

I am a rational person. I try to understand things instead of letting them overwhelm me. Maybe that's why I kept quiet for so long. Because I thought I could sort it out on my own. Because I thought that if I was tough enough, it would work out.

viii.

But today my father died.

And today I realize: some things cannot be thought away. Death is not a concept. Not something to deal with someday. It is real. And it happened today.

I am a believer. In Islam, there is this idea that a person is purified through illness. That suffering is not meaningless. That death is not the end. And I believe that is why I am not in the kind of despair that some might expect.

That doesn't make it easy. But it makes it different.

And yet it still hits you. Of course it hits you. It's your father. The person who shaped your life. You notice how quiet everything becomes. How final a sentence like "he's gone" actually is. You realize that time is non-negotiable.

But I'm glad I stayed. That I was there. That I got to witness my father's last breaths. He passed away at home, surrounded by his loved ones, in peace and in calm, while the Quran was being recited.

Today was his day.

Mine will come someday too. When, I don't know. No one knows. But one thing is clear: I don't want to live as if I had an infinite amount of it.

ix.

Over the last three years, my mother has carried everything.

And when I write it like that, it almost sounds too small. She didn't just overwork herself a little. She took care of everything. Appointments, organization, household, care, conversations, stress, worries. Everything. And yet she was still there. As a mother. As a wife. As a human being.

Today is the day before the actual funeral, and our apartment was already full of friends and family. Rooms filled with people who had come for my father. And in that moment, I understood: that is what remains. Not money. Not followers. But how many lives you've touched.

That's why I'm going all in now. Not for reach. Not for applause. I simply want to build things that help people. Become a person who makes the lives of others better.

And it starts with my mother. She shouldn't have to worry about anything anymore. Within three years, InshaAllah, I will retire her. So she can breathe. So she can live again, without constantly having to survive.

This is not a goal meant to look good on a list. It's a promise.

Today, many things that had been blurry for years are suddenly sharp. I feel clarity again.

Maybe that's the taste of death. Not just that it's bitter. But that it wakes you up. That it brutally shows you what matters. And that it leaves you no excuses.

Today was his day.

May Allah have mercy on him. And may He grant us all strength, success, and health.

إِنَّا لِلّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ