At age 18, I stood at the threshold of adulthood—full of ambition, hope, and fear. Like every other person in our society, I was given the choice: see 10 seconds of my final day or walk away and never know. Most people say no. They don’t want to live under the shadow of what’s coming. They say it’s better not to know. I chose yes.

People told me I was crazy. “Why would you want to live your life in fear of that moment?” they asked. But I didn’t say yes out of fear. I said yes because I wanted direction. If I saw myself die alone, I would know to value the people in my life more. If I saw myself in a hospital bed, maybe I’d take better care of my health. If I saw something violent, I might live more cautiously. I believed that knowing—even just a flash—could give my life meaning.

The 10-second glimpse was nothing like I expected. It was quiet. I was sitting on a bench near a lake. The wind rustled the trees. I was old, wrinkled, smiling faintly. There was a book in my lap. A dog lay at my feet. Then, the light dimmed. That was it.

I came out of the vision in tears—not because it was sad, but because it was peaceful. I had feared so many things: a sudden accident, illness, being forgotten. But that glimpse told me something more powerful than the date or cause of my death—it told me that I’d find peace. That I’d live long enough to grow old. That I’d still find comfort in simple things like nature and stories and companionship.

Some might say knowing ruined the mystery of life. For me, it deepened it. I no longer fear the end. I live with intention, not dread. I take care of my body, nurture relationships, and make time for moments that feel like that bench by the lake. I chose to look, and in doing so, I chose to live.