Death Calculator-When Will I Die?

There are two things we can be pretty sure of in life: death and taxes. Death is non-negotiable, and taxes? Well, let’s just say if you try to avoid them, someone eventually comes knocking. But let’s focus on the first one—death. That dark, inevitable finale to our life’s story. Because no matter how many yoga classes you take, green juices you drink, or affirmations you chant into the mirror, nobody’s getting out of here alive.

It’s a morbid topic, sure, but isn’t that what makes it so intriguing?

Most of us avoid thinking about death like it’s some contagious disease. The younger we are, the more we act like we’re untouchable. Invincible. The kind of people who sky-dive on weekends and eat questionable gas station sushi with zero fear. But as we age—if we’re lucky enough to get older—our mindset shifts. We begin to feel the finite nature of life in our bones (and knees and lower backs). Suddenly, we’re trading tequila shots for turmeric shots and gobbling down vitamins like they're candy-coated hope pills—bedpan bullets, if you will.

Some of us even fall into an all-out war with aging, trying to Botox, lift, suck, sculpt, and implant our way into immortality. Face-lifts, butt-lifts, hair implants, lipo, fillers... all in an effort to buy back what time is inevitably taking. We’re like toddlers trying to stop the tide with a sandcastle.

But what if we had a different approach? What if we knew exactly when we were going to die? Down to the hour. Down to the way it happens. What if the Grim Reaper showed up—hooded, scythe in hand—but instead of doom and gloom, he pulled up a chair at your local café and ordered a cappuccino?

“Relax,” he’d say, “I’m not here for that... yet. Just a little chat.”

And there, in the corner of your favorite coffee shop, he whips out a death calculator. He punches in your name and birthdate and voila! Up pops the precise date, time, and method of your exit from this world.

Would you want to know?

Would you lean in closer, curiosity piqued? Or would you slide your mug across the table and run for the hills?

Think about it—if you knew your expiration date, would it change how you live today? Would it jolt you into pursuing all those things you’ve been meaning to do? Writing that book. Taking that trip. Telling someone you love them. Forgiving yourself.

Or would it paralyze you? Make you anxious every time the clock hits 4:47 p.m., because that’s exactly when the calculator said it’d all end?

Let’s stretch this further: what if you could input someone else’s information? A friend, a spouse, an ex-spouse? Would you want to know when they go?

Let’s be honest—for some of us, there’s a guilty chuckle at the thought of plugging in an ex’s birthdate and seeing the “Final Alimony Payment” conveniently vanish into thin air well before the last check clears. Too dark? Maybe. But you laughed, didn’t you?

Now, imagine you do decide to know. You ask the Reaper for the works. Not just the time and date, but the full cinematic experience. Will it be peaceful and serene, surrounded by family and the scent of lavender? Or will it be something wild, like being trampled by a rogue parade of circus llamas? Gory, bizarre, tragic, or oddly poetic—death comes in many flavors.

And then, in a twist, he tells you: “Actually, if you make a few changes now, you could buy yourself more time. A few months, a few years—even a decade.”

Do you immediately swear off donuts and sign up for a CrossFit class? Or do you shrug and take another bite of your croissant, embracing the “live fast, die happy” motto?

The point here isn't to glorify death or poke fun at tragedy. It’s to invite curiosity. To nudge open the door we all usually keep tightly shut. Because in confronting death, we begin to better understand life.

Some of us already have a hunch about our expiration date. Maybe you've got a number in your head you’ve clung to for years. For me? It’s always been 92. Don’t ask me why—it just feels right. And considering the hardy stock I come from, it's not exactly out of the question. My family is filled with what I lovingly call “battle-axes”—tough, no-nonsense folks who seem to outlive even their own bad habits.

Take my grandmother, for example. She’s 101. Still sharp as a tack, still living on her own. I like to imagine the Grim Reaper has tried knocking a few times and she just opens the door, rolls her eyes, and slams it in his face. Repeatedly. That poor guy probably has bruises from being shoved off her porch more times than he can count.

And that’s just it—some of us may live long, full lives with time to prepare. Others won’t get the warning. Life doesn’t always give us notice. Which brings us back to that infamous question: Would you want to know?

There’s no right answer. Some people thrive on knowledge and control. Knowing the end gives them the freedom to plan. To appreciate. To live with intention. Others would rather stay blissfully unaware and just squeeze every drop out of the moment they’re in, without worrying about the ticking clock.

Whether you’d look or not, the deeper truth remains: death is the great equalizer. It doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, young or old, Botoxed or bare-faced. It comes for us all, eventually. But maybe, just maybe, the question of when we’ll die is less important than how we live while we’re here.

So, if the Grim Reaper did sit across from you with his spooky little calculator, maybe the most important takeaway wouldn’t be the numbers at all. Maybe it would be the reminder to love harder, laugh louder, forgive faster, and live fully.

Because if there’s one thing we can all agree on—it’s that our time here is limited. And knowing that, whether precisely or in mystery, might just be the secret to making everyday count.

We love to say we live in the present. That we’re mindful, grounded, enlightened beings—sipping matcha lattes, doing yoga on sunlit balconies, radiating good vibes while being oh-so-aware of our every thought and action.

But let’s be honest. Most days, we’re tangled in a mental tug-of-war between yesterday’s regrets and tomorrow’s to-do list. We scroll through our phones while pretending to listen, we eat meals without tasting them, and we say we’re “living in the moment” while simultaneously checking the clock, thinking about emails, laundry, bills, or what we’ll binge-watch later.

Sound familiar?

It’s not entirely our fault. Our brains have been wired for survival—not serenity. The modern mind is a buzzing hive of distraction, constantly bouncing from past to future like a pinball. Our ego, dressed up in fear and fantasy, convinces us we’re in control of everything. So we plan, we worry, we obsess, and somewhere along the way, the present moment slips through our fingers like sand.

Ask yourself this: When was the last time you were fully, truly here?

Not just physically present, but completely dialed in. No mental reruns of old conversations. No internal calendar alerts. Just you—awake and alive in the now. Even as you read this, has your mind wandered off once or twice (or five times) to the dishes in the sink, the work deadline, or the fact that your cat is suspiciously quiet in the other room?

We all do it. But awareness of that is the first step. And ironically, the best teacher of presence is often… absence.

We start to understand the preciousness of the moment when something—or someone—is taken away. A sudden illness. A close call. The death of a loved one. The silence in a room once filled with purrs and paw-steps. These are the jarring reminders that snap us out of autopilot. For me, it’s been the loss of three cats I adored, the gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) aging of my parents, and yes—those stubborn gray hairs that appear like clockwork no matter how many times I pluck them.

Those moments—both big and small—whisper (or shout): This is your life. It’s happening right now.

Presence doesn’t mean perfection. You don’t have to be a monk on a mountain or delete all your apps to be mindful. It’s found in the ordinary. Sipping your coffee and actually tasting it. Looking into your child’s eyes when they speak instead of half-hearing them while multitasking. Petting your dog with both hands and no phone. Listening to the wind in the trees without narrating it to yourself. Feeling your breath, even just once, without trying to change it.

Living in the moment doesn’t mean your life is magically free of pain or problems—it just means you stop missing it while it's happening.

So here’s a gentle challenge: Don’t wait for a crisis to appreciate your life. Don’t let the “someday” dreams distract you from today’s miracles. Practice showing up—messy, human, distracted and all. You don’t have to be a Zen master. You just have to notice. Breathe. And begin again.

Because in the end, the now is all we ever truly have. And it’s more than enough.

Aging is, in my view, one of life’s greatest privileges. While I’ve never fully grasped the contemplation of suicide, I deeply understand the crushing weight of despair that depression brings, as well as the consequences that arise from difficult life choices. Yet, amidst all the pain and uncertainty, one of life’s most beautiful and reliable truths remains: change. Change is the only true constant.

To me, the longer we walk this earth, the more opportunities we have to leave a positive mark on everything and everyone we encounter. Life feels a bit like a giant game of bingo—eventually, our number will be called. And when that moment arrives, our brief flicker of existence will be over. It begs the question: how do you want to be remembered? What kind of legacy will you leave for those who follow?

More importantly, how do you teach yourself to pause, to settle into the present, and to truly appreciate the here and now? Sometimes, confronting the idea of death head-on is the most powerful way to do just that.

Imagine if we could know exactly when we would die. How differently might we live? Could it spark a global shift—a collective reevaluation of priorities, values, and how we treat one another? And even if we chose not to know, that decision too carries its own profound meaning.

It’s a deeply complex and beautiful thought—one that challenges us to reflect on life, death, and the precious moments in between.