“Live in this world as though you are a stranger or a traveller.”
— Prophet Muhammad ﷺ (Bukhari)
Salam friends,
I hope this week brought you moments of gentleness — even if brief — amidst the weight of your responsibilities.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about death.
Not in a morbid way.
But in that still, sobering way where you realise:
this is the only certainty about life.
It started with the usual scroll through social media.
Another post about someone’s father passing away.
Another friend’s IG story at a hospital, bidding goodbye.
Then came the WhatsApp messages:
From cousins, students, neighbours, long-lost friends.
Sometimes it's a tragic accident. Sometimes it’s an illness no one saw coming. And sometimes, it’s just… time.
In moments like these, the veil lifts. You realise just how temporary this life is. How fragile our bodies are. How suddenly death arrives, without asking if we’re ready.
It makes you see arguments differently.
Misunderstandings, petty fights, grudges… they all feel so small when viewed through death’s lens. If I were to never see this person again…
Do I really want this to be the last thing I said to them?
Do I want my ego to write the final chapter of our relationship?
Or do I want to be someone who chooses grace over pride, who ends conversations with softness, who walks away knowing I chose peace?
If you had a moment like that recently, where you got upset over a disagreement with someone you care about. And on that same day, you read about someone’s sudden passing - perhaps someone your age, how would you have felt?
If it were me, it would’ve hit me:
If this was our last conversation, would I be okay with it? I would text them. Explained. And apologised. Because life is too short to hold on to your ego and wanting to always be right regardless of how others we interact with felt.
The thing is, we don’t need to agree. But we need to end in kindness.
It is not a sign of weakness as some people may think. It is a sign of clarity — heart and mind.
At a my book signing event last night in Kuala Lumpur, many who attended were grieving. I was doing a book-reading of my latest work, Grieving with God (Malaysians can get a copy here - Singaporeans here)
Some had lost their father. Others their mother.
A few mourned the passing of a beloved pet.
But what struck me most was something else.
At least three or four people came up to me and said:
"I’ve not actually lost anyone close to me yet. Instead, I'm grieving the loss of the person whom I used to be."
That… stayed with me.
Because death in some cases isn’t just about losing people.
Sometimes, it’s about losing parts of ourselves —
the hopeful version,
the fearless child,
the spiritually alive soul we once were.
And that kind of grief is quieter. Harder to explain. But just as real.
Then, yesterday morning — just before my flight to Kuala Lumpur —
My dad sent a message to the family group chat:
His youngest brother has been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.
My heart dropped. That familiar sting behind the eyes. The silence that follows shocking news.
Because it’s not just about the person who's ill. It’s about everyone around them.
How will his children cope?
How will they prepare for this looming, unimaginable goodbye?
How does anyone prepare to lose someone… while they’re still here?
This is the grief before the grief.
The pain of anticipation.
And it too, is part of the test.
The Prophet ﷺ once told us:
“Increase your remembrance of the destroyer of pleasures: death.”
(Tirmidhi)
Not to be gloomy. But to gain clarity. To prioritise what matters. To put our hearts in order.
So here I am, sharing this reflection with you. Not to depress. But to awaken.
Because if we remember death often enough, we begin to live more meaningfully. We speak more kindly. We let go more freely. And we love more intentionally.
Some questions for you and I to reflect on this week:
Who do you need to forgive before it’s too late?
If today was your last day, how would you spend your final hour?
Are you holding on to a version of yourself that’s already gone?
What have you postponed — healing, praying, apologising — because you thought there’d be more time?
And if death knocked today… would your soul be ready?
May Allah grant us husnul khatimah — a good ending.
And may we live each day with the awareness that every breath is a gift on loan.
Till next time,
MW