I’ve read my fair share of books over the years, but few have made as deep an impact on me as Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. 

If you’re a regular reader here at GEE, you probably already know I’m a big fan of Stoicism. Yet, even after decades of dabbling in self-development texts, I still find myself returning to Meditations when I need a jolt of clarity—especially on matters of life and death.

At my age, you tend to think about mortality more often than you did in your twenties. But trust me, even if you’re not in your sixties like I am, there’s a lot you can gain from Aurelius’s words. 

He wrote as a Roman Emperor facing the enormity of responsibility and the daily threat of war and disease. But somehow, his reflections resonate just as strongly in our modern world.

Below, I’d like to share how Meditations reshaped my views on the final chapter we all must face—and how it also inspired me to live more fully in the time I have left.

My first encounter with Stoic wisdom

I first stumbled upon Meditations in my forties (I know, pretty late to the game). Back then, I was juggling a hectic office job, trying to be present for my kids, and wrestling with the big existential questions of life. If you’ve ever had nights where your mind just won’t quiet down—where you wonder about the meaning of it all—you can probably imagine the state I was in.

One of the earliest lines that struck me comes from Aurelius’s reflection on the universality of death. He wrote:

“Alexander the Great and his stable boy were levelled in death, for they were either taken up into the same life giving principles of the Universe or were scattered without distinction into atoms.”

That visual hit me hard. We’re all equalized in the end, whether we’ve conquered continents or merely swept the stables. At first, this realization felt grim. But the more I reflected, the more it liberated me. If death is the ultimate equalizer, why waste time comparing ourselves to others in life?

Embracing the reality of death instead of fearing it

Aurelius reminds us repeatedly that death isn’t something to run from but a natural part of life. One statement that especially spoke to me was:

“Death is like birth, a mystery of Nature; a coming together out of identical elements and a dissolution into the same.”

His idea that death is simply another mystery of nature put me at ease. I realized it’s not so different from the wonder we feel when we watch a sunrise or experience the changing of seasons. Accepting this perspective eased the heaviness that often accompanies thoughts of dying.

Interestingly, research has found that many individuals who regularly contemplate mortality—in a thoughtful, reflective way—actually report lower levels of death anxiety. It’s a bit counterintuitive, but the more comfortable we get with acknowledging death, the less fear it seems to hold. 

I think Aurelius suggests (or perhaps is convincing himself) here that resisting a natural event only creates additional torment in our own minds.

Finding value in every day

Another of Aurelius’s insights revolutionized how I approach my mornings. He said:

“We ought to take into account not only the fact that day by day life is being spent and a small balance remaining.”

Initially, this made me squirm. Who wants to be reminded that our life balance is ticking down? But then I thought, What if that’s actually a call to action, not a downer?

Instead of dreading the passage of time, I began to savor it. Each day became a chance—no, an opportunity—to nurture relationships, test new ideas, and invest in moments of genuine happiness. When you know the number of your tomorrows isn’t infinite, it nudges you (sometimes forcefully) to stop procrastinating.

As Aurelius also warned:

“Remember how long you have been putting off these things and how many times the gods have given you days of grace, and yet you do not use them.”

I used to put off plenty: finishing those passion projects, mending old family feuds, or even something as simple as taking a proper vacation. Reading that passage reminded me that each day is another gracious gift. It’s been one of the biggest motivators for me to push through the fear of starting something new—like taking up writing seriously after I retired.

Freeing myself from petty comparisons

Before reading Aurelius, I’d often get caught up in the typical rat race: wanting a bigger house, a fancier car, or the next big promotion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking ambition. But too often, I found myself measuring my worth by material yardsticks.

In Meditations, Aurelius posed a beautiful analogy:

“You are not discontented, surely, because you weigh only so many pounds and not three hundred? So, too, because you may only live so many years and no longer? As you are contented with the quantity of matter determined for you, so also be contented with your days.”

It reminded me that being tall or short, rich or not, living 70 years or 90—these are factors largely beyond our control. And if we accept the natural limitations of our physical bodies, why not accept the finitude of our days? Instead of bitterness, that realization can lead to peace.

When I stopped viewing life as a competition for who could amass the most stuff, I felt lighter. My focus shifted to the quality of my experiences—time spent outdoors with my grandchildren, lazy Sunday afternoons reading by the fireplace, or leisurely walks with my dog, Lottie. Each moment felt more meaningful because it wasn’t overshadowed by an unquenchable thirst for more.

A new take on constant change

One thing that used to keep me up at night was the inevitability of change—friends moving away, the kids growing up, and technology evolving at breakneck speed. I remember flipping through the pages of Meditations and stumbling on these words:

“Let not the future trouble you; for you will come to it, of come you must, bearing with you the same reason which you are using now to meet the present.”

To me, that was Aurelius’s gentle way of saying: Relax, you’ll deal with it. Our anxieties about the future often spring from the fear that we won’t be ready or capable. But as he points out, the same mind and resilience we’re cultivating in the present will be there to guide us in the future.

He also noted how everything we see changes in almost a moment:

“Everything that your eyes look upon will be changed almost in a moment… what was before is very swiftly hidden by what is carried after.”

Once I embraced that everything (good or bad) eventually passes, I found it easier to roll with life’s punches. Every time my mind spirals into that anxious swirl of “What if this all goes sideways?” I remind myself: change is inevitable, and it doesn’t have to be terrifying.

Celebrating the time we have left

I might be in my sixties now, but this acceptance of impermanence has been oddly refreshing. Instead of clinging to the past or fretting over how many years I’ve got left, I try to follow Aurelius’s advice and see each day as complete in itself—like a self-contained work of art.

He’d probably tell us that life isn’t about how long we live but about how we fill the days we do have.

When my grandkids tug at my hand and ask to hear a story, I’m more inclined to drop everything else and say yes. Those moments are precious—and realizing I won’t have them forever is precisely what makes them priceless.

Finally, but perhaps most importantly, it’s about living more fully

If there’s one overarching lesson I’ve taken from Meditations, it’s that reflecting on mortality is the best incentive to embrace life more wholeheartedly. It’s about focusing on the values, actions, and connections that truly matter and letting go of endless worries that keep us from enjoying what’s right in front of us.

I can’t deny that questions of life and death still crop up in my thoughts, but they no longer paralyze me. Instead, they serve as a reminder: Time is short. Fill it with purpose. Enjoy what you have while you have it.

A parting question

So there you have it—my journey with Marcus Aurelius and how his centuries-old wisdom reshaped my outlook on life’s final chapter. 

My hope is that these reflections nudge you to open (or reopen) his writings and see what you might discover. After all, we’re all on this mysterious path together, inching toward an end we can’t entirely predict or control.

My question for you: How will you spend the days you’ve been given?

Because, as Aurelius would say, the clock’s been ticking since the moment we were born—and there’s no time like now to live.