Death can't be so bad if mom went through it. It makes it easier

The words of Danny Aiello carry the solemn weight of grief, but also the soft light of comfort: “Death can’t be so bad if mom went through it. It makes it easier for the child to follow.” Here we hear not the voice of despair, but the voice of a son who has looked upon the shadow of mortality and found solace in the memory of his mother’s courage. Death, which so often terrifies, becomes less fearsome when we remember that those who gave us life have already passed through it. If the one who once shielded us in childhood has endured this mystery, then the path seems less dreadful, for she has gone before us like a lantern-bearer in the dark.

The origin of this thought is as old as human experience. Since the dawn of time, death has stood as the great unknown, the veil no living being can pierce. Yet across cultures, children have found peace in believing their parents wait for them beyond the veil. Aiello’s words echo this ancient comfort. A mother, who faced pain in childbirth, sacrifice in raising, and endurance through hardship, becomes in death the final teacher. By her example, she shows her children that even this last journey may be borne with dignity.

History, too, bears witness to this truth. Consider the story of Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic emperor of Rome. When he lost his beloved mother, he wrote in his meditations not of bitterness, but of gratitude—that she had lived well, loved deeply, and died with serenity. Her passing became his guide, reminding him that death is not ruin but the natural order, and that to follow her was no shame. Like Aiello, Marcus Aurelius found courage in the thought that if his mother could face death without fear, then so too could he.

Aiello’s reflection also unveils the power of example. We learn not only from the words of those we love, but from how they live and how they die. A mother who endures suffering with strength teaches her children to bear suffering bravely. A mother who dies with peace teaches her children that peace is possible, even in the valley of shadows. Thus, Aiello transforms his grief into a lesson: death is no longer a monstrous unknown, but a path softened by the footprints of love.

Yet there is more: these words reveal the unbroken bond between mother and child. Even in death, the mother remains a guide. Just as she once led the child by the hand across roads and rivers, so in memory she now leads him through the last river—the one no mortal can return from. This bond, eternal and sacred, gives courage to those left behind. In the silence of grief, they may whisper: “If she has gone, then I too may go when my time comes, and I will not be alone.”

The lesson for us is profound: fear loses its power when love has gone before us. Instead of dreading the inevitable, we may prepare for it by cherishing the examples of those who lived before us. When we remember their dignity, their faith, their courage, we find strength to face what once seemed unbearable. Death becomes not a pit of despair, but a doorway walked through by countless generations, including those dearest to us.

Practically, this means we must live in such a way that our own passing may bring courage to others. Just as Aiello drew strength from his mother, so too may our children, friends, and companions one day draw strength from us. Let us live with integrity, meet trials with courage, and face death with peace, so that when our time comes, those who follow will say: “If they could endure, so can I.”

Thus, Danny Aiello’s words shine not only as a lament, but as a gift: that even in death, a mother still teaches. Her courage becomes her child’s courage, her passage becomes her child’s path. And so we learn that death is not the end of love, but the place where love shows its greatest strength—turning fear into peace, and despair into hope.