Every single day, millions are born. Everyday millions die. It is our reality, one we can’t run away from.
Some months ago, at an office I frequent in Southwest Houston, I was told that a Filipino man, a client, had only a few days to live. Before that moment, he had been irregular in his visits. A call to his phone revealed the truth: he was battling a serious illness.
He eventually showed up again, but he was a shadow of the man he used to be. Once meticulous and sharp-eyed, the illness had dulled his memory. I recall a moment when he insisted he had paid for a service he hadn’t, something he would never have done before. Not long after, it became clear that the doctors had numbered his days. He has since passed. His younger brother now runs the business he left behind.
He has experienced the only two days in our lives over which we have no control: the day we arrive, and the day we depart.
On the day we are born, we are greeted with open arms, but on the day we die, the other closes the door, leaving sorrow and tears.
Birthday, loud and bright, arrives with the weightless cry of a new soul pushing into air. It’s marked by joy, by hopes projected onto a tiny being who knows nothing yet of the world, yet carries its possibilities like seeds. There are balloons, names whispered for the first time, and the warmth of hands that promise to hold us through the unknown.
Deathday, on the contrary, rarely comes with celebration. It moves in shadows, even when expected. It closes chapters, leaves questions hanging mid-sentence. Where the birthday is filled with noise and movement, the deathday often brings stillness. It draws people together in grief or reflection, and in its silence, it asks the hardest questions: Did we love well? Did we live fully? Did we leave something that mattered?
Between those two dates lies everything that is ours. The space between birthday and deathday is where we make choices. Where we write, erase, begin again. Where we stumble, learn, heal, and grow. It is in that space that we shape the story that neither the first nor the final day can truly tell.
We are taught to count our birthdays, to mark them with candles and milestones, to celebrate each added year. But rarely do we speak of the other date, though it is just as inevitable. If the birthday is the opening line, the deathday is the period. Neither reveals much without the sentences in between.
Some lives blaze with colour, loud, vivid, unforgettable. Others flow quietly, like rivers carving meaning into every bend. We are not remembered for how we entered or how we exited, but for how we were while we were here. For the truths we lived, the kindness we gave, the battles we chose, and the beauty we created, however small or fleeting.
To reflect on both birthday and deathday is to reckon with time, not in fear, but in reverence. It is to ask, again and again, what am I doing with this precious in-between? It is to wake with the understanding that today is part of the story. That though we don’t know the ending, we are still writing.
So when the candles are lit, and the years are counted, let us also remember the gravity of time. And when silence falls for someone we love, let us not only mourn the loss but also honour the life they carved between two unchosen days.
Read Also: Nigerian develops forensics app for UK police officers
As you mark your birthday, take a moment to remember your deathday, with intention. Let it not be just a passing thought, but a quiet space to ask yourself questions that matter. In the midst of celebration and laughter, pause and reflect: What kind of life am I really living?
Ask yourself: Am I greedy? Am I accumulating wealth that I do not need, chasing after excess while forgetting the simplicity of enough? Am I fair in my dealings, or do I tilt the scales in my favor when no one is watching? Am I diligent in my responsibilities, or am I coasting through, leaving others to carry what I drop?
Consider how you treat those around you. Am I riding roughshod over those who look up to me, forgetting that power without compassion is tyranny? Am I a good leader? One who listens, lifts, and guides, or one who demands and dominates? Am I a good follower? Am I respectful, responsible, and dependable, or do I make life harder for those leading me?
Then go deeper. Am I a good husband? A good wife? A present parent? A loyal friend? Do I always insist I’m right, or have I learnt the grace of apology? Do I make room for others to grow, or do I box them into my expectations?
And finally, ask yourself this: If I were to die today, and there were a judgment, whatever form it takes, will I pass? Will my life, as it stands, be enough to meet the measure of what is good, what is just, what is meaningful?
So, as you mark the day you were born, hold space in your heart for the day you will leave. Let it guide you to live wisely, love deeply, and move through life with humility and purpose. Let the questions shape you, not shame you. Because in the end, birthdays are not just about growing older, they’re about growing better.
In the end, the question is not when we began or when we will end, but how we lived in the space where both had not yet come.