Discovering radiance in the shadow of morning dread

I awake in the morning and there comes a feeling of dread.

I wonder where this feeling comes from — why am I programmed to feel or rather think the worst on these mornings?

I ask myself, what am I thinking of? I consider for a moment the absolute worst thing that could happen. Is it death?

It is far worse to have someone close to you die than to die yourself. But, still, the feeling this morning is more of a personal dread than a worry for a loved one.

Am I thinking of my death, and is that why I feel dread?

I ask myself, for in death, this experience is over — and that’s not all that bad — right?

For in death, you have the opportunity to be born again, to transform — or so I believe.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The body returns to the earth, but something deeper — a light, a presence — remains.

The younger version of me would push down any dreadful emotions and certainly not sit and ponder them; however, in those quiet moments, I recalled the Buddhist teaching of impermanence.

It reminded me that every emotion, whether we label it positive or negative, is a ripple in our ever-changing existence.

There is no true end, only transformation.

No, I considered it again; the worst is to live and suffer. But is that entirely true?

I considered the strong will to live that most humans possess. Even if suffering, they still have this innate will to live, to persevere in the face of adversity. And that in itself is beautiful — just as beautiful as death; both suffering and death may be an opportunity for rebirth.

All death is, in fact, a beginning, and suffering, if you allow it, leads to growth and transformation.

For the younger version of me, death was something you thought you could avoid; you put yourself in risky situations — ones where death was possible but unlikely. It was a thrill.

I never actually pondered death in any real way until it came creeping closer. I could only fully contemplate death when finally encountering people who were much closer to it.

Seeing those you know leave this earth, their vitality slowly dim, their skin wrinkle, their body shrink. Seeing their minds deteriorate and their will to live slowly release its grip — whether through physical illness or the feeling of being pulled down into uselessness and non-relatability.

Visiting those who are close to death is an awakening in itself.

I recall visiting my grandmother just a week or so before her passing from stage four cancer, and I saw her come in and out of her mind. Into the body, the present moment, and then into the mind, the knowledge of the cancer eating her, the unfinished business she would have liked to see resolved, and the pain of leaving her children and grandchildren.

She left this earth not knowing if her children would be ok, and with her son sick as well, the pain — I can’t imagine.

But this pain lived in her mind, and as she came back into the present moment into the being, you could see the clouds lift and her eyes, clear and pure, looked into mine.

That was a blessing.

Seeing a soul for what it is, a pure essence, a light. I find it hard to describe these brief moments, but I know what I felt and what I saw.

In that moment, I saw that the soul isn’t just a part of a body that can fade away — it’s an eternal light that shines even in our darkest suffering.

Buddha-Nature teaches that every being holds an inherent potential for awakening — a constant, pure light beneath our ever-changing emotions. Even when our minds are filled with pain, this inner light softly tells us that suffering isn’t the end — it’s a call to look deeper and uncover the beauty hidden within our hurt. In every shadow of sorrow, there is the promise of a new beginning, an invitation to awaken to the true, radiant self that we all carry.

It’s about recognizing the intrinsic, pure, and luminous essence within us that remains even as our thoughts and feelings shift. This core light offers hope and the possibility for renewal, even in the midst of suffering.

Today, I feel like I’ve already gotten too close to departing from this earth.

The thrills have left me, and I’ve lost the passion that once moved me. My body doesn’t recover as quickly as it once did, and I am no longer striving for a certain thing. The motivation that once offered me a zest for life. 

I am no longer the same. I am no longer that young girl.

Yet even as I dwell among these dark thoughts, I catch a glimmer of light — fueled by mindfulness and acceptance.

For a fleeting moment, I can see clearly that every ending is a beginning.

Perhaps losing the passion of my youth is not a loss at all but a metamorphosis and deeper understanding of who I am becoming.