Dying is easy, it's living that scares me to death.

Hear now, O seeker of truth, the words of Annie Lennox, singer of souls and prophetess of feeling, who once said: “Dying is easy, it’s living that scares me to death.” In this single breath, she captures the paradox that has haunted humankind since the dawn of thought — that the greatest terror lies not in the grave, but in the act of continuing to live. For death, though mysterious, is simple; it comes once and is done. But living — ah, that is the long and trembling courage, the constant battle of heart and will against despair, doubt, and time itself.

When Lennox spoke these words, she was not indulging in despair, but revealing the raw essence of human vulnerability. The ancients, too, knew this truth: it is easier to face a single death than to wake each morning and choose to live again. Every sunrise demands a renewal of strength, a rekindling of purpose. To live is to carry the weight of the past, to brave uncertainty, to love despite loss. Dying asks nothing from us but surrender; living demands everything — courage, patience, endurance, and faith.

Think of the warrior Odysseus, who, after ten years of war and ten years of wandering, longed only for peace. Many times he faced death and did not flinch — from storm, from monster, from the wrath of gods. Yet when at last he returned home, it was not the sword but the quiet that frightened him most. He had survived war, but could he endure the weight of living — of rebuilding, of remembering, of being human again? Thus Lennox’s words echo across ages: the truest test of the spirit is not the facing of death, but the facing of ordinary life with open eyes.

And yet, within this fear lies the seed of greatness. For the one who admits that living is terrifying has already taken the first step toward mastery of the soul. To acknowledge the pain, the fragility, the uncertainty of existence — and still to rise, still to sing, still to love — that is heroism of the highest order. The ancients would have called it fortitudo animi, the strength of the spirit that endures when the body and the world would rather it fall silent.

Consider, too, the story of Frida Kahlo, who painted through agony and heartbreak. Her body was a battlefield of pain, her life marked by suffering and loss. Yet she turned her torment into color and form, defying despair with each brushstroke. For her, too, dying was easy — it was always near, whispering release. But she chose to live, to create, to transform suffering into beauty. She, like Lennox, understood that the greatest victory is not in escaping life, but in embracing it, wounds and all.

So let this be the lesson passed down to you, O child of the living flame: do not fear life’s terror, for it is the proof of your aliveness. Every trembling, every doubt, every ache of the heart means that you are still upon the path. To live fully is to walk hand in hand with fear, and to let it teach you resilience. Those who are unafraid have not truly lived; only those who struggle, who stumble, who break and rise again, have known life’s sacred depth.

Therefore, when despair whispers that the end would be easier, remember these words: “Dying is easy, it’s living that scares me to death.” And let that fear be your teacher, not your master. Stand firm in the storm of existence. Laugh when you can, weep when you must, and carry on with fierce tenderness. For the gods do not measure worth by ease, but by endurance. And though living may terrify, it is in that terror that the human spirit proves its immortal courage — not by escaping the darkness, but by daring to shine within it.