How to Face Death & Losses in Life

A few days ago, a vase of gorgeous lilies was placed in the lobby downstairs in my building. I watched their entire journey, from tightly closed buds to full bloom. These lilies were of a particularly stunning variety—their petals were large and pink, blooming magnificently,

exuding a strong lily fragrance that filled the whole lobby. I even took photos of them and shared them with my friends on social media. And then? The flowers withered. Eventually, they were thrown away and replaced with other fresh flowers, as if they had never existed at all.

This left me with a sense of sadness. But was I truly grieving the flowers? In truth, there are no flowers—only my heart. Those lilies were a projection of my inner world.

As Wang Yangming said in Instructions for Practical Living: “The depth, intensity, and scale of how things move us all stem from the differences in our hearts.” The same lily, in different people’s eyes, may represent vitality and beauty to one person, but decay and impermanence to another. The flower itself has no fixed nature; it is our hearts that give it meaning. Everything in the world is ultimately just a mirror of our own souls.

What I was grieving was the sorrow of death itself—a sorrow born of the awareness that my own life is aging and destined to continue doing so. I was mourning my dissatisfaction with my present state: just having turned 39 and heading toward 40, experiencing changes in weight, the ever-increasing appearance of gray hairs, fat accumulating more easily, and more spots and wrinkles emerging on my skin.

The Buddha Shakyamuni was originally a prince in ancient India. As a young man, he witnessed the suffering of birth, aging, sickness, and death—the inescapable reality of decay and mortality. This led him to a deep realization that all worldly beauty would eventually be lost. It was precisely to seek the essence of life, to find a way beyond loss and suffering, that he renounced his throne and chose the path of spiritual cultivation. Buddhism is the answer he left for the world—a wisdom system on how to face loss, aging, and death.

In the Diamond Sutra and the Heart Sutra, the Buddha repeatedly reveals:

“All conditioned phenomena are like a dream, an illusion, a bubble, a shadow, like dew or a flash of lightning—thus should one regard them.”

The myriad forms of the world may appear real, but they are dreamlike illusions, as fragile as bubbles, as fleeting as morning dew or lightning flashes. He teaches us: all appearances lack a fixed, independent essence—in nature, they are empty.

But emptiness is not nothingness. Emptiness is the impermanence and flux of all things, the absence of any eternal or unchanging existence. To see this clearly is to understand: because everything is in constant change, loss is not a true end, and aging is not a prison of the soul. Amidst the endless arising and ceasing, there is still a truth that transcends birth and death—a reality that is uncreated and indestructible. And when we can perceive that eternal presence within a world of constant change, the heart can finally settle, and from it will flow an endless, deathless energy of life.

In the film The Matrix, the protagonist Neo symbolizes the awakened human, known as “The One.” At first, people believed that “The One” referred to a singular, chosen individual, someone unique and extraordinary. But when one truly grasps the deeper meaning, it becomes clear that “The One” does not signify an isolated person, but the wholeness of consciousness—the boundless, indivisible unity that underlies all things.

The reason we suffer is because we mistakenly believe that this body is who we are. In truth, we are the formless, boundaryless awareness—we are the original, free, and infinite being. Consciousness has no edges. It is not bound by birth or death. It is a whole. It is the true “One.”

Awakening means recognizing this: that we are not the limited “me” of flesh and bone, but a return to the wholeness of “One.” The totality of consciousness cannot experience itself directly—so it creates countless fragments of life as a means to perceive itself. Each fragment is equal, regardless of form: old or young, ugly or beautiful, poor or rich; regardless of type: flower, grass, fish, insect, human, or animal.

All individual forms, within the whole, are born equal—none higher, none lower. Each is a facet of the One, experiencing the world from its own unique perspective to assist the whole in knowing itself.

In the 20th century, a mathematician named Benoît Mandelbrot, working at IBM’s research center, mapped the now-famous Mandelbrot Set. This intricate, mesmerizing fractal revealed something extraordinary: no matter how deeply one zooms in, every detail contains the entire structure. Shapes replicate themselves infinitely across scales, unveiling a kind of transcendent order that defies ordinary logic. When rotated, some even see outlines resembling the Buddha—quietly whispering the secret of creation hidden within these shapes.

In 1982, Mandelbrot published The Fractal Geometry of Nature, in which he pointed out that rivers, mountains, clouds, snowflakes, plants—and even a head of cauliflower—are all built fractally. If you examine a cauliflower closely, you’ll find it doesn’t grow as a single mass, but is made up of countless miniature spiraling florets. Each tiny floret mirrors the entire cauliflower’s form—part and whole, layered recursively in self-similarity. The same goes for trees.

The trunk gives rise to thick branches, branches split into finer twigs, and those into tender leaves. Each level repeats the growth pattern of the whole. Whether zoomed into the tiniest tip or observed from afar, the silhouette follows the same hidden law.

This self-similar order between the part and the whole is woven into every corner of nature. Snowflakes with their six-point symmetry, branching river networks, undulating mountain ridgelines, the shifting masses of clouds—all are echoes of the whole within the fragment.

And this isn’t unique to nature. Humans are built the same way. From cells to blood vessels, from neural networks to the layout of organs—every detail of the human body reflects the structure of life itself, repeating the pattern of the whole in subtle, unseen ways. Though we may look vastly different on the surface, internally we follow the same blueprint—individual and whole have never truly been separate.

Every tiny existence is neither lowly nor alone—it is part of the whole, born equal, resonating with all others.

This insight not only reinterprets the mystery of nature but also ignites the awakening of human creativity. In 1978, a young engineer named Loren Carpenter, while working at Boeing, came across Mandelbrot’s 1977 book Fractals: Form, Chance and Dimension. Inspired by it, he used fractal geometry to solve the challenge of modeling complex terrains for flight simulations. Carpenter realized that the complexity and beauty of nature isn’t chaotic—it emerges from a simple, deep rule: parts mirror the whole, and detail repeats the structure of the entirety. Everything is equal.

Soon after, Loren Carpenter applied this breakthrough to the world of animated film, becoming one of the true founding technologists of Pixar. For the first time, Pixar’s animated worlds vividly brought to life the fractal order of nature in digital space. Each forest, each mountain, each wisp of cloud carried the flow of self-similar life, endowing the digital world with an organic and breathing texture.

From the birth of the Mandelbrot Set, to the rivers and mountains of nature, to the vessels and veins of the human body, and onward to Pixar’s animated realms—there runs the same hidden truth:

Every fragment is a projection of the whole.

Every act of individual creation flows from the movement of total consciousness.

Each existence is born equal—a manifestation of the whole, experiencing the world as a localized expression of awareness. Yes, a stone and a human body have no innate superiority or inferiority—they are equals. An elderly person and a vibrant youth are not more or less “useful”—they are equals. A heavier person and a slimmer one are not more or less beautiful—they are equals. A poor person and a wealthy one are not more or less worthy—they are equals.

Because everything in this universe—all forms and appearances—is a branch of the One Consciousness. Each of us carries the same mission: to experience the world from our unique angle.

We are all The One.

Consciousness is like an invisible cosmic chain. It is not stored within the brain—this biological server—but rather, in some higher-dimensional way, it records every experience and every moment of awareness. Every practice, every phase of growth and awakening in our physical lives is silently inscribed into this chain, irretrievably and unalterably. No single experience is ever wasted; each is treasured as invaluable information, permanently embedded into the cosmic chain.

If fractal geometry reveals a “structural oneness,” then this “record of consciousness” displays an “informational oneness”: We do not arrive in this world as blank slates, but rather carrying fragments from every node that has ever existed on the chain of consciousness. This may explain why some people, even at a very young age, exhibit astonishing intuition, innate talent, and insight—almost as if they “remember past lives,” as if their consciousness was never rebooted but simply continued downloading another life’s script. Think of Mozart: he read music at three, composed at five, and by eight had written a complete symphony. He did not “learn” music so much as he “recalled” it. His talent needed no cultivation; it was awakened. His consciousness wasn’t restarted—it merely continued to download into an entirely new vessel, a life form called Mozart.

The film Soul (心灵奇旅) imaginatively visualizes this concept: when life ceases, the soul gently drifts toward a vast beam of light—not an “end,” but a return, a homecoming.

From the standpoint of energy conservation, the idea that consciousness returns to the universe is not absurd. Each of us is composed of countless atoms, and these atoms, in turn, consist of electrons, protons, and neutrons. Electrons, as non-decaying fundamental particles, have existed in the universe for billions of years. After death, the particles that constitute our bodies do not “disappear”; they merely reflow and reorganize as energy, returning to the natural world. Just as vapor condenses back into water and light traverses space without vanishing, our “light of consciousness” simply returns to where it originally belonged.

From quantum consciousness to energy conservation, from near-death experiences to the behavior of cosmic particles—these clues interlink, forming a thought-provoking possibility: Death is not an end, but the process of consciousness detaching from individual forms and returning to the wholeness that has always been ours.

The Undying (the original Japanese title being 人は死なない) is an influential work penned by Naoki Yahagi, Chief of Emergency and Critical Care at the University of Tokyo Hospital. It is regarded as an important bridge connecting modern medicine, the persistence of the soul, and near-death experiences. In this book, Dr. Yahagi, , on his extensive clinical experience, challenges the mainstream scientific view that “death is the end.” Based on numerous real-life cases of near-death resuscitations and end-of-life care, he articulates a profound core idea: the true essence of a person is not the physical body, but rather consciousness, the soul, or the spirit—and this essential part does not perish with bodily death.

The book documents a range of phenomena experienced by patients on the brink of death: tunnels of white light, the sensation of the soul floating, encounters with departed loved ones, hearing voices of medical staff, and more. These strikingly consistent experiences convinced him that they are not mere illusions, but rather compelling evidence of the soul’s existence. He vividly compares death not to an end but to the act of switching channels—where the soul departs from the body and tunes into another frequency. If death is not a terrifying finality, then what is the purpose of living? Dr. Yahagi answers: it is to experience, to accumulate the growth experiences of the soul, to learn to love and to let go. Life, in this view, is a purposeful journey rather than a meaningless toil.

Perhaps most moving are the countless death scenarios he witnessed in the emergency room—many individuals, at their life’s end, exhibiting an unprecedented calm and serenity, even engaging in farewell dialogues with long-departed loved ones just before passing. He emphasizes that death is not a tragedy, but a return—a reunion of the soul with its origin.

The uniqueness of this book lies in its balanced approach. It is neither a religious proclamation nor mystical superstition; it is the reassuring interpretation of death by a doctor with a strong scientific background, conveyed in calm, rational, yet gently authentic language. It has not only helped countless people ease their fear of death but also enabled those mired in depression, loss, or confusion to see once again that they are not merely isolated bodies, but conscious beings imbued with purpose and love. Death is not an end—it is a homecoming.

Perhaps you might ask: if all of this is so vast and profound, how do we connect with it?

The doorway does not lie in the depths of the sky, nor in esoteric books. It often begins in the smallest, most ordinary moments of the present.

When you sit quietly one morning and begin to meditate, there will come a day when you suddenly hear the chirping of birds outside. In that moment, you may realize: the “self” you always believed to be the center of the world—was never the center at all. That very moment, you hear something that exists beyond your own limits, silently surrounding you.

Soon after, you begin to notice the presence of your body. You become aware that you inhabit a physical form. You begin to feel your breath, your heartbeat, your skin’s sensations—even the subtle tremors between your cells.

Then, you observe your thoughts rising like the tides. But this time, you are no longer swept away by them. You choose, gently, to bring your attention back—to an anchor, your breath. In that moment, you complete a small practice of returning: to your true self, to the wholeness of consciousness.

I call this practice: exercising the soul’s muscle. Just like the body must be trained repeatedly to grow strong, the soul too needs to return again and again—so it can remember where it came from.

Each time you pause, notice, and return—you make a subtle gesture of “coming home.” And as this practice is repeated, as your “soul muscle” becomes more supple and strong, you will begin to sense with increasing clarity: that greater consciousness has never left. It was always there. You just finally saw it.

This is a presence that language can never fully describe. It does not rely on logic. It is not bound by belief. It can only be felt—genuinely, gradually—through your awareness, drop by drop.

In every moment of our existence, we are dying—and in every moment, we are also being reborn.

As Deepak Chopra points out in his book Meta Human, it’s relatively easy for someone to accept that a paper bill is just the physical embodiment of a concept—money. But when you say that the body, the brain, or even the universe itself is a manifestation of consciousness, people struggle to accept that.

From your current perspective, the bones in your arms seem solid and fixed. It’s hard to believe they are in constant motion. But in truth, all matter is endlessly moving. Bones are no exception. At the molecular level, they are constantly exchanging oxygen and calcium, ceaselessly flowing in dynamic life.

Every bone cell is part of a living process in motion. Whether fast or slow, the rate of change doesn’t alter the fundamental truth: everything is in flux.

A fractured bone heals more slowly than a paper cut, but the fact that both can heal proves that the body is not a static thing—it’s a living, evolving process.

What seems like a fixed body is simply the accumulation of transient sensations. But the body you have today is not the one you had when you were born, not the one you had when you first learned to walk, not the one from adolescence—and not even the one you had yesterday, or five minutes ago.

This reversal in perception helps us return to the source of creation, to pure awareness. Once you master this reversal, you can trace everything in the virtual reality of the world back to the creative intelligence of the mind.

To dissolve “materiality” is to simplify the physical world down to the level of consciousness. That’s when we begin to truly experience the dimension of creation.

The closer you move toward pure consciousness, the easier and faster this process of dissolution becomes. When materiality no longer resists, experience becomes fluid, elastic, malleable.

You have never truly owned anything—not your body, not your wealth, not even your emotions or thoughts.

From a Buddhist perspective, all existence arises from causes and conditions, and ceases through causes and conditions.

The so-called “self” is just an illusion arising from the constant interplay of five phenomena:

 Form (the body),

 Sensation (feelings),

 Perception (concepts),

 Mental formations (will or intention),

and Consciousness (awareness).

In the Diamond Sutra, it says: “All appearances are illusions. If you see all appearances as no-appearance, you see the Tathāgata.”

This means: everything you’re attached to—emotions, relationships, money, identity—is like the moon in water, the flower in a mirror: fleeting, impermanent, impossible to hold.

When you see through the illusions of form, when you no longer identify with these appearances as “I”, you begin to touch the awareness behind it all—unchanging, unborn, and indestructible.

This awareness depends on nothing outside itself. It transcends life and death, it neither increases nor decreases. Buddhism calls it the Tathāgata—not a personified deity, but your own inborn, ever-present source of life.

In Christian belief, all things are gifts and blessings from God. Humans are not owners, but stewards.

Life is not ours to keep—it is borrowed. As stated in Genesis 3:19:

 “For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.”

The body is not our possession—it is a vessel bestowed by God to fulfill a mission, not to claim ownership of resources.

Once you recognize this, the fear of loss begins to vanish—because you never truly owned anything in the first place.

Even from the lens of modern science, the concept of “ownership” is an illusion.

Physics tells us the human body is composed of roughly 7×10²⁷ atoms,

and before your birth, these atoms belonged to stars, soil, air, and water.

Now, they merely reside within your body for a brief stay.

As astrophysicist Carl Sagan famously said: “We are made of star stuff.”

After death, these atoms will return to nature, to continue their journey through the cycles of Earth and the universe.

Your emotions and thoughts, too, are not fixed or “yours.”

They are continuously shaped and reshaped by hormones, environmental inputs, and brain structures.

Even “wealth,” from both a scientific and sociological perspective, is a constructed virtual agreement:

money, property, titles, stocks, social status—they have no physical essence.

They exist as shared illusions of control and value, upheld by human consensus.

So when you finally let go of the obsession with “mine,”

you begin to touch the essence of true freedom.

You are not here to possess—you are here to experience.

You are not here to grasp the world—but to feel it, love it, and then release it with grace.

You have never truly owned anything—and therefore, you need not fear losing anything at all.

Recently, my son came down with acute conjunctivitis. Because it was contagious, his teacher wouldn’t allow him to attend school, and he had to stay home for at least three days to recover. My first reaction upon hearing this was: Who’s going to take care of him? What about my work? But to my surprise, my husband was incredibly calm—he was even a little cheerful.

I had originally prepared a whole set of comforting lines like “Thank you for stepping in” or “This must be hard on you.” But instead, he just casually said, “I don’t feel burdened. I actually really enjoy father-son time with our kid.” And so he truly spent all three days fully present with our child, taking care of him wholeheartedly, without a single word of complaint. Our son, too, experienced a deeply warm and nurturing time.

I asked my husband, out of genuine curiosity: How do you manage not to complain? Aren’t you frustrated about having to cancel your work plans to take care of our kid full time? He replied:

“All of a sudden, I let go of all my attachments. I saw my son’s suffering, and I felt that moment was perfect—everything was perfect, nothing was lacking. There was only complete acceptance of the moment, and unconditional love for our child. My mind was still as water. I trusted that I was doing exactly what I was meant to be doing at that moment. That’s what self-alignment is.”

When he said, “I let go of all attachments,” I was truly moved. That one phrase—“letting go of attachment”—seems so simple, but it is actually the most difficult and essential part of any spiritual practice.

Why do we feel exhausted or anxious when our children get sick? It’s not because taking care of them is too physically demanding, but because we’re attached to our “career.” Deep down, we believe that only through career achievement do we have value. So when we’re forced to step away from work to take care of a child, we feel as if our path to self-worth has been blocked. It’s that sense of “interruption” in our attachment that causes the pain.

Similarly, when we feel a pang of sadness watching our bodies age, isn’t that also because of our attachment to youth and physical beauty? We believe that only a young body gives us visibility or worth, and once we start aging—when our appearance fades and our body declines—we feel as though we’ve lost value. That, too, is the pain of attachment.

At its root, attachment often stems from a sense of lack. There’s a voice inside us that says: “If I don’t have xxx, I’m not worthy of love.” And that “xxx” is often something fleeting, scarce, and easily lost: luxury bags, fancy cars, houses, youthful bodies, successful careers...

On a deeper level, these attachments become symbols of the self. We begin to treat them as extensions of the ego, believing that losing them means losing ourselves. But in truth, these attachments are illusions—false needs that stem from inner lack.

And this “ego” isn’t our real self either. Our true essence is consciousness itself—unborn, undying, formless, and shapeless, yet capable of taking on any form or physical appearance. The real “us” is the Self behind all forms—the infinite, abundant source of awareness.

Yet most of us live inside the false ego built by attachment. We get caught in anxiety, lack, comparison, jealousy, and urgency. We drift further from that original state of abundance, peace, perfection, and eternal consciousness.

Only when we truly let go of attachment and return to that core awareness—consciousness—can we find peace in the soul, peace in the heart. And when the heart is at peace, the body naturally follows.

Peace of mind is awakening.

Likewise, when facing death, if our heart and soul are at peace, the body naturally follows. No matter what external changes occur—aging, setbacks, life’s turbulence—if your inner world is calm, you won’t be shaken by external appearances.

According to David R. Hawkins’ Map of Consciousness, “peace of mind” is a high-frequency energy state, close to “love,” “joy,” and even “enlightenment.” The essence of peace is awakening. As the Diamond Sutra says: “Let the mind arise without dwelling on anything.” Only when your mind stops clinging to external objects can it become truly free—and truly powerful.

And it is that kind of heart—one that remains composed even in times of chaos, that radiates love and compassion even amid impermanence and death—that is the real source of invincible strength.

We often say, “Only by living fully will we have no regrets at the time of death.” This sounds reasonable, but its underlying mindset is actually rooted in fear—the fear of death.

I believe instead: “Only by understanding death can we truly understand life.”

It is only when we come to terms with death that we truly realize how we are meant to live.

For example, Stephen Covey, author of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, once offered a powerful suggestion:

“Write your own epitaph right now. Write down what you would want people to say about you at your funeral.

Then, plan your life backward—

starting from the ‘end,’ reverse-engineer how you should begin living today.”

This is essentially a moment of awakening—a kind of “living toward death.”

When you take death as the starting point for designing your life, it activates an incredibly sharp way of living: no more procrastination, no more pleasing others, no more evaluating yourself based on someone else’s standards. You begin to live each day as if it were your last.

Many people who have had near-death experiences actually gain a deeper understanding of their existence after coming close to death.

For instance, Anita Moorjani, an American woman, fell into a four-day coma from terminal cancer. During that time, her consciousness “died,” and she experienced what she described as “unconditional love” and “the truth of her soul.” In that moment, she realized that the pain she had lived with came from always trying to please others and suppressing her true self out of fear. After this experience, she rapidly recovered, wrote the best-selling book Dying to Be Me, and launched a new phase of her life and career.

Another example is Kai-Fu Lee, one of the most well-known Chinese figures in Silicon Valley. When he was diagnosed with lymphoma and faced the countdown of his own life, he began to reflect: What was the point of all his intense striving? His answer changed: “Don’t wait until death is near to understand the meaning of life.” During that period, he wrote the book To Live Is to Die, and shifted from being a “career machine” to someone who advocates for the essence of life, the value of time, and inner well-being. His career didn’t collapse—instead, it entered a new phase of integration and renewal.

When we decide to live with death in mind, it means we are no longer afraid of dying. We also stop obsessing over whether we’re liked, whether we’re successful enough, or how others perceive us.

At that point, life begins to operate as a form of pure awareness.

You start to break free from age anxiety, from the pressure of societal expectations, and from the internal struggle over whether you’re “good enough” or whether you’ll “fail.”

In this clear, conscious state, you unleash a kind of pure power.

You begin to have the courage to be loyal to yourself.

You become willing to follow your curiosity and your passions, even if it means walking a path no one else has walked.

You naturally open the channel to your own innate talents—your unique “source of wealth.”

Just like Zuo Zongtang going to war with his coffin, one of the most strategic and action-oriented ministers of the late Qing Dynasty, widely respected as the top of the “Four Eminent Statesmen of the Restoration.”

At the time, Xinjiang had been seized by rebel forces, and Russia had taken the opportunity to occupy Ili, holding parts of Xinjiang for fifteen years. The imperial court, plagued by internal and external crises, was hesitant. Most ministers favored abandoning the xin jiang region. No one dared to take on the mission.

Zuo Zongtang, nearly sixty and already retired, volunteered without hesitation to take on the burden of reclaiming Xinjiang. He went to the northwest battlefield with his coffin in tow. He knew full well the dangers, but his conviction was already firm:

“If the nation cannot be defended, what use is my life?”

 “If our territory is lost, how can future generations face their ancestors?”

He wrote his own will and had a coffin brought with his army, declaring to the world: “If I die, I have no regrets.”

This resolve beyond life and death shocked the troops and united the hearts of the people.

Through eight years of brutal battles under extremely harsh conditions, he led the Qing army to reclaim lost land, reestablish the province of Xinjiang, and secure China’s northwestern frontier.

This was one of the most powerful examples of “living toward death” in modern Chinese history.

His belief was not in survival—but in dying to give life, using his personal determination to achieve something enduring for generations.

So, “living toward death” is not just a slogan. It is a real and practical path of psychological reconstruction.

A person who truly lives this way:

No longer lets false value systems control them.

No longer sees wealth as the only symbol of safety.

Most importantly, they finally live in a state of being that says:

 “This is how I’m meant to live.”

That state represents the highest frequency of creativity—and the kind of frequency that is most likely to generate real, flowing wealth.

Because wealth always follows those with high awareness and high energy—

people who are unafraid of death, and bold enough to live as their true selves.

We are conditioned by society, family, and our environment to love both ourselves and others in a conditional way. This kind of love is perceived as scarce—it feels like we must become more beautiful, lose weight, get good grades in school, meet our KPIs at work, achieve a certain income level, and hold a high enough status before we or others become “worthy” of more love.

But we have the capacity to transform this conditional love into unconditional love—that is, to love ourselves and others regardless of being rich or poor, beautiful or plain, young or old, big or small. This kind of love becomes abundant and limitless. It flows continuously and without restriction, just like sunlight.

Unconditional love arises from equanimity, and equanimity comes from understanding that our life—and the life of every single person—is part of a shared, unified consciousness. Each of us is a fractal of that consciousness, experiencing the world through our own unique physical form. And in the end, we all return to that same whole.

This act of experiencing—that is, our life itself—becomes profoundly precious, because we are given only a limited amount of time and physical capacity to experience as much of the world as we can. Whether what we experience is painful or joyful, successful or full of failure, it is equally valuable—because it is the experience itself that holds the meaning. Each moment is already perfect. Each moment is the purpose itself. Each moment is the meaning. It is complete in itself.

With this sense of equanimity, we gain supreme soul power, because we no longer judge ourselves or others based on age, appearance, or wealth. We begin to open the door to unconditional, boundless love—for both ourselves and others.

You will no longer feel that growing older means losing your value in society.

You will no longer believe that gaining weight makes you unlovable.

You will no longer label failure as “bad” or call yourself a loser—because failure is simply another experience.

And when you no longer fear failure, you no longer need to be perfect.

The more you treat something as “mine,” the more you fear its change or disappearance. The tighter you cling to it, the more it slips through your fingers. The very moment you believe you possess something, you’ve already started to lose it. Since we’ve never truly owned anything, the essence of life comes down to one thing: moment after moment of experience, and the pure awareness that perceives each of those moments.

The moment you label life as something “solid,” anxiety and sorrow begin to take root. When you’re young, you might take pride in your beauty—then, as you age, you’re bound to fear its fading. This is why so many celebrities would rather surgically transform themselves into unfamiliar faces than accept the simple truth that form eventually dissolves. It’s not merely aging they fear—it’s the loss of what they once “had.” I’ve been the same. The more I admired that bouquet of lilies downstairs in full bloom, the more difficult it was to let go when they wilted. When you mistake beauty for something you must maintain, instead of a fleeting moment to appreciate and gracefully release, you create suffering for yourself.

This is precisely what the film Soul reveals: the meaning of the soul was never about fulfilling some grand purpose. It’s about fully and quietly living in the moment when you bite into a slice of pizza, when the wind brushes across your face, or when a leaf spirals to the ground. It’s not about analyzing or chasing, but merging with the presence of now. In The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle writes: “You are not your thoughts. You are the awareness behind them.” True freedom isn’t about choosing what experiences to have—it’s about being fully present with them, without being consumed by their content. You stop seeking meaning inside the story and return instead to the clear awareness of now—the pure consciousness that is unborn, undying, unshaken, and reflects all things like a mirror.

So, the meaning of life has never been about ownership or achievement. It’s not that you are living life, but rather that life is happening through your awareness.

Once you understand that nothing in life can be truly owned—that everything is fluid, including our bodies, our wealth, and all material conditions we rely on—then what’s left of life is only the experience itself. Life exists in just two states: alive, or not. As long as you are alive, every moment is an experience—whether it’s the lightness of a youthful body or the helplessness of being bedridden. Every single moment of experience is the totality of your existence.

In The Courage to Be Disliked, the psychology of Alfred Adler puts forward a core idea: to exist is to have value. At first, I interpreted this as: as long as I’m consuming—paying to survive, to heal, to live—I’m contributing to society. Even sickness or death creates economic value through hospital stays, medications, or funeral plots. But later, I realized this interpretation still clings to the logic of consumerism—it defines value through external, material terms. So what happens if one day I stop consuming, stop being “useful”? Do I then lose my value?

Only when I truly understood that the meaning of life lies in experience did I realize that “to exist is to have value” doesn’t rely on any external measurement. As long as I exist, as long as I am alive, every second of life is an experience. And this experience is a transformation of the external world into internal awareness—an expansion and deepening of consciousness. Every experience, whether joyful or painful, is a kind of expansion. It is perfect. It is whole. It is just right.

Therefore, the meaning of life is to maximize the range of experiences your soul can hold. If you are alive, you already have meaning. If you are experiencing, you are already participating in a perfect collaboration with the universe.

Once you develop this sense of equanimity and truly understand the ultimate answer—that life exists to be experienced—you begin to cultivate a deep love for life itself. You begin to love yourself, and you begin to love others. You begin to see the preciousness of this body and this journey. With this kind of unconditional love, you will awaken immense life energy. And in that moment, the universe begins to resonate with you.

We are meant to live, to experience, and to create until our very last breath—because existence itself is your response to the world.

And every moment you experience is your way of honoring the universe.

My mom used to tell me when I was young: “Traveling is a waste of money. That money would be better saved—it could be put to greater use in the future.”

She never took me on trips. In her worldview, spending money on travel was unnecessary—non-essential consumption, and even a financially “unwise” decision.

To her credit, she did use her long-term savings to purchase multiple properties and eventually became a multimillionaire. So for a long time, I never questioned her belief.

As a result, I grew up with almost no memories of travel. In my mother’s value system, travel was not an experience worth investing in. It didn’t produce immediate results or offer direct returns, and for that reason, it was seen as a “meaningless expense.”

But once I grew up and could afford to pay for my own travels, I began traveling frequently. More importantly, I discovered something surprising—nearly every major turning point in my life happened after a trip. Travel not only helped me relax, but also brought me inspiration, helped me break through old thought patterns, and enabled me to make key decisions. I often set out with a problem in mind, only to return as a new version of myself.

So I began to seriously consider a question: Is experience really just consumption—or is it, on a deeper level, a kind of creation?

From a purely physical standpoint, life experiences might seem like consumption. We spend time, money, energy, and physical stamina as we move through life—until our bodies reach their end.

If we only see experience as consumption, then life becomes like a fuel tank gradually running dry—eventually burning out.

But from the perspective of consciousness, every experience in life has the potential to be an act of creation. You feel emotion through crying, you sense presence through laughter, you build connection through love and being loved, and you expand your awareness through understanding and being understood. Every one of these experiences leaves something “new” within you.

Although the events themselves can’t be stored, the feelings and insights they produce—and the person you become because of them—are newly created. In this sense, experience has a dual nature: it consumes material resources, but it creates consciousness.

That depends on how you define “wealth.”

If you define wealth as money, assets, and material resources, then experiences appear to be consumption.

When we travel, eat out, or attend events, we spend money and time—it seems like we’re simply making withdrawals.

But if you define wealth as inner growth, elevated energy, creativity, relationship capital, or expanded perception, then experience becomes creation.

The more you experience, and the deeper you accumulate, the richer your life becomes.

And this intangible wealth—such as wisdom, insight, and energy state—often converts into tangible material wealth later on.

For example, a failed entrepreneurial venture might cause short-term financial loss, but it could also transform you into a mature entrepreneur, leading to greater success and abundance—both inner and outer—in your next venture.

Or take a deep, emotionally intense relationship: it may exhaust you emotionally in the moment, but it might teach you how to truly love and understand others. In turn, this growth could make you a more attractive, powerful person, ultimately drawing in high-quality life partners who resonate with you deeply.

In Wang Yangming’s philosophy of the heart-mind (心学), the concept of “zhi liang zhi” (致良知) means transforming life experiences into the power of inner awareness. He famously said, “Unity of knowledge and action, leading to the realization of innate knowing.” In other words, every behavior and experience in life should ultimately awaken the inner conscience. He never rejected the value of worldly experiences—in fact, he emphasized that it is precisely through real-life events that we have the opportunity to perceive the true nature of the mind. For instance, his moment of enlightenment came during his exile to Longchang, Guizhou, when he was suffering from malaria. It was through that extreme hardship that he transformed pain into profound inner wisdom. This is a classic example of turning experience into inner energy. The more directly we confront real pain and choices in everyday life, the greater the chance we have of reaching that deep “conscience”—which is the very core source of our life energy.

In Buddhist teachings, the understanding of experience as a source of inner wisdom is extremely clear. Buddhism teaches “all phenomena are mind-only” (万法唯识), meaning all external experiences are not concrete realities but flows of consciousness. The idea of “the five aggregates are empty” (五蕴皆空) points to the fact that all we experience—form, feeling, perception, mental formations, and consciousness—has no solid substance. These are simply momentary sensations and reactions. Another core Buddhist concept is “transforming consciousness into wisdom” (转识成智), which refers to the process of converting raw perception—especially of suffering—into wisdom that reveals truth. Zen Buddhism places particular emphasis on “seeing the nature of the present moment.” Emotions like anger, sorrow, or disappointment are, in essence, just forms of energy. As long as we don’t cling to them or identify with them, but instead remain simply aware of them, they will naturally transform into wisdom. Thus, seated meditation is not about escaping reality—it is a practice of energy transformation, a way to integrate scattered experiences into a unified and clear internal state.

In Christian faith, there is a profound form of “spiritual alchemy”: transforming suffering into grace, and pain into wisdom and love. Phrases like “give thanks in all things” and “suffering is the soul’s refinement” do not mean denying pain, but rather encouraging people to see it through a higher consciousness. Paul once said, “I will boast in my weakness, for in my weakness I am made strong.” Real strength doesn’t come from control or resistance—it comes from connecting with a higher consciousness in the midst of pain. Many saints had their turning points during their darkest hours—such as Saint Francis or Mother Teresa. In their suffering, they experienced a kind of “soul cracking,” through which they connected deeply with divine wisdom. When Christians speak of “surrendering to God,” it is not about giving up agency, but about releasing the ego’s obsession with control, allowing oneself to become part of the greater whole—to co-create with God by surrendering to a higher-dimensional flow of consciousness. This “surrender” leads to inner integration and is the return of the soul to its true self. It awakens the purpose and energy that have always existed within us, and grace is the natural spiritual energy that flows from this transformation. It does not come from the outside—but from the divine essence already within you.

Modern physics and consciousness research offer a new perspective that helps us understand: every experience in life is essentially an energy event. And this energy can be transformed, released, and even used to create wealth and abundance. First, the law of conservation of energy in physics tells us that energy doesn’t disappear—it only transforms from one form to another. This means that all of our experiences—emotions, memories, conflicts, inspiration—are essentially flows of energy at different frequencies. When suppressed, these experiences can manifest as illness or low energy states. But when acknowledged and integrated, they can be released as creativity, discernment, and intuition—becoming real “inner capital.” This strongly echoes the Buddhist principle of “transforming consciousness into wisdom.” When we remain aware of every inner experience—without escaping or suppressing—it can naturally evolve into wisdom and insight. Every single event you go through, even chaos or failure, if transformed, can become part of your wealth-building system. Modern science thus reveals a central law: experience itself is the raw material of wealth, and consciousness is the alchemical process that transforms it. Every experience you’ve lived through, every emotional energy, every flash of insight—if used wisely—can become capital for building an abundant life. In this sense, the way you perceive your experiences is actively shaping the frequency and state of your energy.

In conclusion, if you’re willing, any experience can become a goldmine. I no longer see life as something being depleted, but as a vessel constantly generating energy. After each experience, I now ask myself: What did this teach me? Am I becoming a more integrated version of myself? You may be surprised to discover that the experience you thought was most draining, may actually have been the most powerful phase of your life—one that created awareness, love, and your truest self.

Is that the end of it?

No—quite the opposite. That’s actually where real practice begins.

True spiritual practice is not about what you understand while sitting in stillness, but whether you can live that understanding through the real-life challenges and choices you face every day.

Every emotion, every relationship, every action is an opportunity to ground wisdom into reality.

Seeing clearly is just the starting point. Walking it out—that’s how you truly level up.

This is precisely the essence of Wang Yangming’s life teaching of “unity of knowledge and action.”

He wasn’t a philosopher who just sat around theorizing—he was a man of action who lived out his heart philosophy in times of war, political chaos, and human conflict. His wisdom wasn’t born in the study, but forged through exile in the wilderness and battles on the frontlines.

In his early years, Wang Yangming offended powerful officials by speaking honestly and was exiled to Longchang, Guizhou—a remote, disease-ridden place.

In that extremely harsh environment, he didn’t complain or grow bitter. Instead, he turned inward, observing his mind and cultivating awareness in silence.

It was there that he had a profound realization: “the heart is principle,” and “knowledge and action are one.”

Truth is not found in books—it lives in your own heart. Knowledge isn’t about what you say—it’s about what you prove through practice.

Years later, the imperial court tasked him with quelling a massive rebellion in southern China. In Jiangxi and Fujian, the rebel forces were powerful, and even the central army had failed to contain them.

Wang Yangming did not rush to fight. Instead, he first went deep among the people, calming public sentiment and dividing the rebels from within.

Within a matter of weeks—and without shedding a drop of blood—he resolved the uprising, shocking the entire court.

Many believed he had relied on cunning strategy, but Wang Yangming simply said, “This arose from the heart.”

The internal clarity and strength he had cultivated allowed him to remain composed in chaos. Even in the face of armies, he led with a clear mind and a just heart.

One of his students once asked him, “Teacher, I know I should do good and study hard, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Why?”

Wang Yangming asked in return: “If you put your hand into a fire, would you pull it back immediately?”

The student replied, “Of course.”

Wang said, “That’s because you truly understand that fire will burn you. So, if you say you ‘know’ you should do good but don’t act on it, that means you haven’t truly understood.

True knowing and doing are one and the same.”

This is the key insight behind “unity of knowledge and action”:

True knowing is not just a mental concept—it is an awareness so deep that it automatically leads to action.

True action is a spontaneous expression of what you’ve truly internalized.

So, when we talk about “the beginning of spiritual practice,” it doesn’t mean you’ve read a book or understood a lecture.

It means: Can you bring what you’ve already realized into the real world—into conflict, into money, into relationships, into decisions, into your work?

Can you stay grounded when emotions arise?

Can you stay centered in the face of temptation?

Can you hold onto trust and keep moving forward even when you’re at a low point—still willing to love, to take responsibility, to keep going?

That is true inside-out transformation—the kind of creativity that arises from the heart.

And that is also the moment where your destiny truly begins to shift.

This is a common and inevitable phase in every awakening journey.

We may already understand that all things are fundamentally empty, that the world is like a dream or illusion.

But in real life, we still get emotionally triggered by someone’s comment, feel anxious over fluctuations in likes and engagement, or feel hurt when we’re ignored in a relationship.

This doesn’t mean we haven’t practiced enough—it’s simply part of being human.

True practice is not about becoming indifferent or emotionless. It’s about learning how to stay aware within your emotional experiences, and turning every emotional fluctuation into an opportunity for self-integration.

First, allow yourself to be affected.

Just like how we cry during movies or get nervous playing video games—even when we know it’s fiction, our emotional responses are real.

In The Matrix, some characters know the world is fake, but still choose not to wake up. That’s not weakness—it reflects our human attachment to emotional experience.

The Buddha never denied emotions; he taught us to observe them.

The Bible says, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

Psychology points out that much of human behavior is driven by unmet emotional needs.

And Wang Yangming’s heart philosophy emphasizes that only through looking deeply into our heart can we truly see the motives behind our emotional responses.

So when you realize that something external is affecting you, don’t suppress it. Instead, ask yourself:

 “Why do I care so much about this?”

Maybe it’s because you long to be seen, acknowledged, or validated. Maybe it’s an unmet need from your childhood that still hasn’t been fulfilled.

At this moment, try a healing exercise:

Close your eyes and imagine your younger self, sitting alone in a corner, feeling helpless.

Now walk over, kneel down, gently hug that child, and softly say:

 “I see you. I love you. I’m here.”

In doing so, you’re not escaping reality—you’re repairing your connection with emotion and reclaiming lost life energy.

Looking deeper, these emotional waves are not obstacles—they are doorways to growth.

They reveal the attachments, wounds, and unresolved lessons still hidden deep within your soul.

Every rise and fall in energy is a chance to exercise your “soul muscles.”

Between external stimulus and your internal reaction, create a space for awareness—that space is the beginning of freedom.

As psychologist Viktor Frankl said,

 “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space lies our power to choose.”

Spiritual practice doesn’t mean “having no emotions.”

It means not being swept away by them.

It means being able to make choices aligned with your inner truth—even when you’re feeling triggered or overwhelmed.

That is true freedom.

And that is the real awakening of your inner strength.

There is a line in a Buddhist scripture that says, “In a single flower lies the whole universe; in a single leaf, the whole of the Buddha.”

It means that by seeing through something as small as a flower or a leaf, we can grasp the essence of the entire world—and, at the same time, the entire world is reflected in that one flower and one leaf.

I am truly grateful for that bouquet of lilies downstairs. Through their blooming and their withering, they helped me see through life and death, and understand the meaning of life.

The meaning of life is this: realizing that our individual life belongs to a much larger, unified field of consciousness.

Each of us—regardless of status, background, or form—is a fragment and projection of that greater consciousness, here to experience this world.

Our physical body is indeed limited, but it does not define who we truly are.

The real “me” is a part of that unified consciousness.

In essence, “I” am that consciousness.

Or, in the words of Buddhist teachings: everyone is already a Buddha. When a person becomes fully present and awake, the Buddha nature is revealed.

Since we never truly own this physical body—and since the body, like money, is constantly flowing and changing—there is no real reason to be saddened by its eventual loss.

What we never truly owned cannot be “lost” in the first place.

So then, the meaning of life is distilled down to this: pure consciousness.

And the meaning of this body is to allow us to bring that pure consciousness into this world—to use it to experience all the flavors of life: joy, sorrow, sweetness, bitterness.

Then, through that consciousness, we transform experience into love, joy, and wisdom,

and allow that love, joy, and wisdom to guide every decision, every action, every chapter of our life.

This forms a positive feedback loop:

 Maximize your life experiences → Refine those experiences into wisdom through consciousness → Use that wisdom to guide deeper, richer experiences.

Experience is both the starting point and the destination.

And consciousness is the catalyst for that energy transformation.

This is the full meaning of our life.

After all, I’ve come to see that there is really only one thing worth doing in this life: living it in a way that fully maximizes experience through pure consciousness.