I Don't Want To Die

The more I listen, the quieter the fear becomes

I’m writing this from a cafe in Barcelona.

I can’t believe it, really. That this is my life. That this is real.

This all used to be a dream, a fantasy. The idea of living in Europe, of leaving everything behind, starting over, asking myself every day what I wanted from life.

Two days ago, I moved into my new apartment. It’s blissful. Tucked at the foot of the Collserola mountain. There’s a coffee shop downstairs, a bathtub—nothing connects me to myself like a bathtub—and even a tatted doorman named Gustavo who, on my first day, gave me a thirty minute speech on Taoism, the perils of materialism, and the importance of laughter. My kind of guy.

It’s not a big dream I’m living. Not some grand version of myself that the world must admire. Statues won’t be built of me. The world won’t remember me when I’m gone. That used to be the obsession—they have to remember my name. I have to change everything.

Ah, youth.

I love that version of Matty. So desperate for love, so attuned to the world’s pain, and so insistent that it all had to be different.

But when I check in with him now, his needs always circle back to the same things—connection and creativity. He wants cuddles on Sundays, dinners with friends where we’re laughing till 3 am, and an online community that gets him. He wants to build impactful businesses, draw humans in their raw form, and write about what he’s learning. So simple.

We sacrifice so much of ourselves to be seen. We give up sanity for a dose of approval that evaporates in an instant. We sell our lives for other peoples’ ideas of who we should be.

At least I did.

Years ago I went to a slam poetry night in LA. A 30-something girl came up at one point to perform. She spoke of someone she loved who had recently passed away. Then, halfway through her set, she broke down.

“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.”

She repeated this like it was just her and God in the room, her voice getting louder, her hand on her heart, bending over, barely breathing.

The whole room was silent. Not a dry eye in the house.

None of us want to go. Even in moments when life has felt unbearable and I’ve wanted it to end, deep down, I knew I didn’t.

I’ve always been so scared of death. But now that I’m gradually living the life I want, I’m slowly seeing that death wasn’t the fear. It was leaving without having truly lived. Without having been myself, expressed myself, taken the risks to be me. The closer I get to that true self, the farther that fear becomes.

Hours before my grandma passed, as she lay down fighting for each passing second, she looked each of us in the eyes and whispered “Que maravilloso.” How marvelous. That woman lived with her whole heart. She cried with every goodbye. No wonder she told me she wasn’t afraid to die. That she was actually curious. My hero. I’m crying as I write this. I cried thinking about her yesterday too.

I’m trying to not give advice as much as I used to. I would always tell everyone they had to change the world. That they had to dream so big it scared them. But now I usually say the same thing—get quiet and listen. That’s it. Put the phone away, turn off the noise, place your hand on your heart and, like a loving parent, whisper, “My love, what is your greatest wish?”

The voice may not answer right away. It may take a while for it to trust you. Patient loving awareness is essential.

But eventually it will.

And when it does, don’t rush it. Don’t reject it.

Just be with it.

Let it lead you slowly back to yourself.

Love,

Matt