In 2020, I bought a calendar that most people would never think to own.
It wasn’t filled with inspiring quotes or scenic landscapes. It was a plain, almost clinical grid: hundreds of small, empty squares. Each one represented a single week of an average human life. And every week, I was meant to fill in a square.
It’s called a memento mori calendar, Latin for “remember you must die.”
And yes, I know how that sounds. Most people hear that phrase and flinch a little. When I first explained the idea to friends, the reaction was almost always the same: “Why would you want to mark down to your death? Isn’t that morbid?”
But to me, the practice isn’t dark at all. It’s the most life-affirming thing I’ve ever done.
The Discomfort of Facing Mortality
We live in a world that does everything it can to hide death from view. We soften it with euphemisms, avoid talking about it in polite conversation, and push it far out of sight; as if ignoring it could make it less inevitable. But that avoidance comes at a cost.
When we refuse to look at death, we also refuse to look closely at life. We postpone what matters because we think we’ll “get to it eventually.” We delay the hard conversations, shelve our biggest dreams, and waste precious time on trivial distractions; all under the illusion that we have forever.
That’s why memento mori feels so unsettling: it punctures that illusion. It reminds us, visually, undeniably, that the number of weeks we have is finite. That the squares will run out.
A Calendar That Became a Compass
Every Monday, when I fill in a new square, I’m not mourning the passage of time, I’m measuring the weight of it.
That tiny act makes me pause and ask myself:
✒️ Did I spend this week on what really matters?
✒️ Did I show up fully for the people I love?
✒️ Did I take a step (even a small one) towards the life I want to build?
Sometimes, the answer is yes. And I feel a quiet satisfaction as I shade in the box.
Sometimes, the answer is no. And that sting becomes a gentle nudge to course-correct in the next square.
What I’ve realised is this: the calendar isn’t a countdown.. it’s a compass. It points me back to the things I often forget in the noise and busyness of everyday life. It reminds me that time isn’t guaranteed, and that today (this square, right now) is the only one I truly own.
A Stoic Practice That Softens, Not Hardens
The ancient Stoics understood this deeply. Seneca urged, “Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing.” And Marcus Aurelius wrote, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say, and think.”
These weren’t calls to despair , they were reminders to live deliberately. To love fiercely. To strip away the superficial and make room for what truly matters.
And that’s what this simple calendar has done for me. It’s softened the edges of my days. It’s made ordinary moments like coffee with someone I love, a walk in the evening light, the quiet satisfaction of working on something meaningful, feel richer, fuller, more sacred. 🙂
It’s Not About Death, It’s About Depth
When I look at the rows of filled-in squares since 2020, I don’t feel dread. I feel gratitude.. for the weeks that shaped me, the lessons I’ve learned, the people I’ve loved. And I feel a renewed sense of responsibility to make the remaining squares count.
Memento mori isn’t a morbid fixation on the end. It’s a profound invitation to live without regret. To stop postponing joy. To stop waiting for “someday.” To look at the brevity of life and, instead of shrinking from it, use it as fuel to live more deeply, more intentionally, more courageously.
Because when the final square is filled, the only thing that will matter is how you spent all the ones before it.
📜 If you’re curious about this practice, the calendar I’ve been using since 2020 is from Stoic Reflections. It’s a simple object with a profound lesson, one that’s quietly transformed how I think about time, mortality, and what it truly means to live.