The Meaning of Life Is That It Stops

“I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.”
― Mark Twain

The title is a quote from Franz Kafka, a novelist and short-story writer best known for The Metamorphosis and The Trial. The quote’s meaning, for most, is that life is temporary, so we should live it to the fullest. We should take advantage of the time we have here and now because it will be over soon. Once we understand life ends, we can begin to live. But for me, that quote has quite a different meaning.

Although there’s not an official diagnosis, I suffer from dysthymia, a long-term, chronic form of depression that is mild but lasts for years. It started as a kid, and given I’m almost 50, it’s been quite a long time since I’ve felt this way. Along with dysthymia, I also still experience major depression (diagnosed), which is often called double depression. Add in anxiety, and altogether, it can be debilitating. It’s a part of who I am, and it’s what I deal with daily. I’ve tried it all — medication, meditation, exercise, changing careers, and years of therapy. Some of it has helped, but overall, the depression and anxiety remain. I even spent time in the psych ward in 2025 because of my depression.

In Andrew Solomon’s The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, he discusses what it means to be depressed: “You are in touch with the real terribleness of your life. You can accept rationally that later, after the medication sets in, you will be better able to deal with the terribleness, but you will not be free of it. When you are depressed, the past and future are absorbed entirely by the present moment, as in the world of a three-year-old. You cannot remember a time when you felt better, at least not clearly; and you certainly cannot imagine a future time when you will feel better.”

Being absorbed entirely in the present moment is the issue. That present moment is full of rumination, worries about the future, and regrets about the past. It’s exhausting listening to the thoughts that flood my mind. Those who have never experienced depression or anxiety cannot fully understand what it means to live a life with a brain that doesn’t give the body relief. You can escape a lot of problems, but you can’t escape yourself.

As much as it is valued and preached, mindfulness and meditation are not valuable for many whose moments consist of constant noise in their brains. We’ve tried almost everything to get it to stop, including meditation and mindfulness. It’s certainly not for lack of trying that this problem exists. Being in the moment itself is the problem, not the solution.

But this is not a piece about meditation or mindfulness. It’s about the days ahead that will sometimes never seem to end, and the days behind that have been so unequivocally wasted. It’s about a brain that is more foe than friend. And it’s about the message of Kafka’s quote — that life stops, and how I am thankful it does.

I am highly sensitive and easily affected by others. I remember negative experiences and interactions from 30 years ago like they were yesterday. I can feel others’ moods and notice subtle cues from others and my environment that many miss. It affects me deeply.

“I’m a quiet person, so I hear everything.”

— Sarah Liberti, from her TED talk

Anxiety and insomnia are the results of my excessive rumination. Depression is the result of my anxiety, insomnia, and rumination. Even publishing this story gives me a mix of all the above. It’s a vicious cycle, and one I’ve learned will always return no matter what steps I take. And there’s regret and shame in many of the choices I’ve made.

The thing is, I have no wish to die. Often, I’m fairly happy. I have two daughters who I can’t wait to watch grow and be there with them in whatever path they may choose. They bring me immense joy, and I love them more than life itself. Trail running, writing, and art are passions. I’m curious about the future, and I have plans — a tiny house on some acreage away from others where my kids can come visit, and I can read, write, and run. Fully embracing my loner tendencies will help keep my misanthropy at bay. There are a lot of good days, even with depression and anxiety always there. They take a vacation, but they don’t go far. However, I still wish to live.

Yet, when death comes, I believe it will be a relief — something I will welcome and embrace.

Honestly, it’s very confusing. It feels strange to be in this space where death almost feels comforting, a place where I will finally be able to rest. There will be no more worrying, no more pain, and no more of my chaotic mind. Life has been very painful, and I think all the pain has affected me in ways that have left me quite numb. It’s not that I want to die; it’s just that I haven’t figured out how to live. Maybe that will change. But for now, I’m stuck between these two worlds where not much makes sense.

“No matter how much insight and understanding we develop, the rational brain is basically impotent to talk the emotional brain out of its own reality.”

— Bessel van der Kolk, from The Body Keeps the Score

From Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, William Styron talks about the pain I mentioned. “The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come — not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute. If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow. It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul. So the decision-making of daily life involves not, as in normal affairs, shifting from one annoying situation to another less annoying — or from discomfort to relative comfort, or from boredom to activity — but moving from pain to pain. One does not abandon, even briefly, one’s bed of nails, but is attached to it wherever one goes.”

Wherever I go and whatever I do, that pain is attached. There’s not much hope it will get better either — I’ve lived long enough to know that. But it will get better with death.

I imagine death as that place of contentment I’ve been searching for, to close my eyes and finally find forever, an ending to something profound I can never understand. It will be a celebration of finally being free from a brain that I can’t get away from while alive. Free from a brain that strives for perfectionism while knowing it’s not achievable, one that’s full of anxiety and chronic, deep depression. It will be the end of exhaustion and a place to rest from myself.

Death will be an honoring of making it through a life I often didn’t want to live and welcoming a death I often longed for. At least, that’s what I imagine. And although I do not know or understand what death will mean, I am acutely aware of the experience of existence; I can’t see the experience of non-existence as being much worse, even with that lack of understanding.

Death will not be an ending, but rather a way to finally quit living. And while that may seem like the same thing, there is a nuance that, for me, makes all the difference.

Jane Austen, the author of one of the most well-loved books, Pride and Prejudice, died at 41 in 1817. The cause of her death has been a source of speculation for a while, with researchers suggesting illnesses such as Addison’s disease, lymphoma, and tuberculosis. According to excerpts from A Memoir of Jane Austen, which was written by her nephew, Austen had been sick for over a year.

“When the end at last came, she sank rapidly, and on being asked by her attendants whether there was anything that she wanted, her reply was, ‘Nothing but death.’ These were her last words.”

I don’t currently wish for death like Austen. But when on my deathbed, I think I will be grateful my time has come. I will also wish for “nothing but death.”

The meaning of life is that it stops. To me, there is solace in that.