What’s the Point, If We All Die Anyway?

If death is inevitable, what exactly are we chasing and why does it still matter?

Jul 16, 2025

Recently, someone I enjoyed watching play football passed away, and suddenly, my own heartbreak didn’t feel like the worst thing anymore.

I opened my feed and saw the headline: Diogo Jota has passed away.

It took a moment to register. I blinked, refreshed the page, and looked again.

Wait… that Jota?

The Liverpool player I always looked out for on the pitch? The one who just got married to the love of his life a few days ago? The one who still had celebration in his bones and a career ahead of him?

Gone. Just like that.

I don’t know him personally, but the news stayed with me. It clung to me like a damp cloth. There’s something about losing someone young and full of momentum, it unsettles your inner world. It shifts the furniture of your mind and makes you feel unsafe in your own routines.

That night, the same question came back, the one that often returns after heartbreak, grief, or disappointment: What’s the point of it all?

I was speaking to a friend who had just shared another loss, and I remember saying aloud, “Just like that? Why?” We wake up, we hustle, we show up, we try. Then the next day comes, and we do it again. Over and over. All of it unfolding under the shadow of an inevitable end.

The Finality of It

One minute you’re giddy, planning trips, setting alarms, dressing up for work, logging into zoom for another long meeting that should have been a voice note. You’re getting your nails done and spending thousands of naira on a beauty routine, not because it’s essential, but because it makes you feel good. And the next minute, you’re sitting with your mother, trying to ex]plain why joy still matters when life suddenly feels so fragile.

“You spend how much on nails again?” she asked me.

I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because how do you explain the small joys to someone who sees the world through a practical lens? She would rather I invest in land. And honestly, fair enough. There are many sensible ways to grow wealth and prepare for the future. But that day, I wasn’t trying to argue economics.

I told her the truth. I save. I plan. I pray. But sometimes I just want to feel good in my body again. Sometimes I choose softness, and making my nails is part of that ritual.

I understand her concern. I understand the need to prepare for the future. But lately, I’ve been wondering if it’s even possible to prepare fully for death, pain, or those moments when life rips the ground out from under your feet.

So I reminded her and myself that tomorrow is not guaranteed. She agreed with me, at least for that day.

I’m still learning how to unclench my chest from a grief I didn’t invite. I’m still finding rhythm again in a body that feels out of sync. And now, death has returned to remind me how unpredictable this life truly is.

What Are We Really Running Toward?

We chase love. We chase money, comfort, beauty, validation. We build careers. We dream of soft lives. We pour ourselves into goals and relationships. But what’s left at the end of it all?

Is it a memory? A mourning lover? The family and friends left behind? A timeline full of curated joy and half-truths?

This Isn’t a Hopeless Post

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
— Psalm 90:12 (NIV)

I promise I’m not writing this to spiral. I’m writing it because I need to name the tension. The tension between grief and gratitude. Between how short life is and how much we still want from it. Between the ache of knowing nothing is guaranteed and the decision to still show up anyway.

To cry over Jota, a footballer I never met, because his death shook something loose in me. Mourning little D with the beautiful smile because death doesn’t mind robbing the cradle. Choosing to still do my nails while hurting, not because I’m okay, but because I want to feel like myself again. To Keep praying and planning even when I have no guarantee that I’ll see all my plans come to pass.

I don’t think life is measured by how long we live. I think it’s measured by how fully we show up; how present we are, how honest we’re willing to be, how open we remain even when things fall apart.

It’s not about escaping death or pretending it isn’t coming. Maybe the point is to live in such a way that, whenever it arrives, we can look back and say we didn’t hold back. That we loved without calculation, laughed even in broken seasons and kept honoring life , even when the extraordinary felt out of reach.

So we keep asking the hard questions and letting ourselves feel deeply. We keep honoring the ordinary : the morning light, the nail appointment, changing baby diapers, running late for work, the spontaneous laughter, the prayers that keep us grounded.

Maybe that’s what it means to live well: to keep showing up, fully and vulnerably, even when we know how fragile everything is.

What Now?

“Even death is not to be feared by one who has lived wisely.”
— Buddha

I don’t have a final answer. I’m still trying to make sense of how grief, beauty, love, purpose, and God all fit into a life that can disappear in a moment.

But I know this: I want to live fully. I want to live deep. Not on autopilot or in fear. Just really live.

I want to say “I love you” when I mean it.
I want to forgive quickly.
I want to stop performing strength and start honouring softness.

If death is the end, then let my now be honest. Let it be full.