The newly retired grandmother who was looking forward to playing with her grandchildren but got struck by a deadly virus.

The recently unemployed father killed by the police officer who was meant to protect him.

The depressed young professional who lost his job and jumped in front of a train.

The excited mother-to-be who died during childbirth.

The teenager who got knocked over by a reckless driver in a speeding car.

The playful infant who drowned when he fell in the pool.

The stillborn baby girl who had her whole life ahead of her.

It doesn’t make sense. How can this world be so cruel? It doesn’t seem fair.

On the face of it, it’s not fair.

Contemplating on the true nature of this world

Why should someone die at such as young age? Did they not deserve to live a long healthy life? Did I not deserve to have more time with them?

As we go through life, we discover that loss is inevitable. No matter how much we might want someone to come into our life or to stay with us forever, the reality is that when it’s our time, or their time, that will be it.

We see again and again how anything which comes to form will inevitably fall away. All things that I can see, hear, taste, touch and smell — all this will at some point break, melt, evaporate, burn, disintegrate or in some way no longer remain as what I might know it to be.

I could become furious about this loss, this injustice. I could shout and scream. But will it change what was meant to be? What I realise is that it will just hurt me further.

What if I was to become so numb and heartless that the series of losses in life need never hurt me again? Well, that might appear to work for a while, but it saps all energy. What a waste of life, a missed opportunity for self-realisation, for deep growth and to unleash the soul.

Applying the lens of kindness to myself and to the world

So what’s the alternative?

Let me cultivate a zest for life and compassion within.

Let me see the reality of the situation and be kind to myself.

Let me focus on that which can make a positive difference to me and the world around me.

Let me relentlessly pursue the quest to discover that which is permanent, that which is dependable, that which will bring rise to great calm and true joy.

The world is suffering, yet we have the power to heal ourselves and the world around us. By contemplating on the true nature of reality and recognising the transitory nature of this world, may I become empowered to lead a calm and purposeful life.

Their body might be no more, yet they are still here.

There might be no further interaction, yet they are still here.

Their virtues live on.

Their light shines on.

Still here.

A friend, who recently lost her mum, shared how her mum had taught each of her children a song they could call their own.

Now whenever she sings that song, and wow does she sing her song, her mum’s legacy lives on and on.

We recently lost one of our beloved community elders, Keshubhai, and I have deep remorse that I didn’t spend enough time with him.

Consistently, in every single interaction I’ve had with him in the past decade that I recall knowing him, he would gently look towards me, hold my gaze and smile with such heart and joviality that all my stresses would melt away in that moment. He might share a few brief words, but with each word uttered, his eyes would glisten with mischief.

And it’s not just Keshubhai. So many of our elders have worked incredibly hard, over the decades, to cultivate inner stillness so that their light may shine bright. It’s a light that embraces, that disarms, that illuminates and can fill you, all parts of you, with love.

As each of our elders continue to leave, one by one, I realise just how much of the magic we are letting slip through our fingers. As I get older, year by year, day by day, moment to moment, I endeavour to absorb this magic embodied by our elders. I seek, with all my heart, to be worthy of becoming such a gentle, loving, joyful elder in the community when I reach later life.

Keshubhai’s departure has hit me harder than I would have cared to admit. While he might no longer be around for me to interact with, this gentle smiling magician lives on in my heart.

How might life be like for me at that point? The world might become brighter while illumination takes place within. I might be surrounded by people I adore, or immersed in the joy of solitude, or both. I might be running around with ease, or trapped in a stationary body, but free regardless.

How will my character have improved? I might be more accepting of the circumstances that life presents. Or perhaps I will challenge each situation with greater vigour and no risk of anything to lose.

Decades of loss as family and friends drop to the ground around me, as will be inevitable for me too. Like a phoenix rises from the ashes, I too can arise now, before much more time must come to pass.

Friends have commented how I must be enjoying bachelor life while the wife’s away.

In the past, I have felt excited initially (at the prospect of doing what I want without distractions), followed by weeks of loneliness (even when surrounded by family, friends and colleagues) and sadness at the prospect of returning to an empty home. Outer distractions would quickly turn into inner distractions, such as procrastination. Distractions, mostly, from facing up to my inner blockers and vices.

This time, however, it was different. Yes I got immersed in work but also intentionally carved out quality time with close family and friends, and yes some time to binge watch Netflix (!) Most importantly, I actively confronted my inner challenges – calmly, confidently, joyfully.

Doing this has shone a light on what’s truly important, has helped me to clearly define and work on my priorities, and has created more space in my life to do that which is fulfilling and joyful.

This is work in progress, of course, but what an encouraging start.

This year we’ll be married 10 years – and it’s now I see how much I value Heena’s presence in my life. Her creative spirit, her compassionate heart.

Time apart has been as enriching as time together.

Do I worry about losing her? Not so much. Do I love her presence in my life? Absolutely. Would I want to be a bachelor again? No need.

So this is a short note to say hi, hope you are well and do drop me a note or tweet me @surajshah if there are any topics related to loss that you would like me to cover going forward.

I was only six, but I recall clearly how we were walking back home from school, just mum, my brother and I, and how the Great Storm of 1987 had hurricane-force winds that caused substantial damage and 18 deaths in southern England.

It was super windy and we were walking home unprotected from the elements. I was six and my brother was four and mum was there with us, so for us brothers, it was just a fun experience – what did we care?

Before we knew it, a loose roof slate flew past our heads, narrowly missing us, and smashed into pieces onto the ground in front of us. My brother and I thought it was cool but mum must have been petrified as we hurried home to get safely indoors before the weather got really bad.

So here I am back in Wealdstone, not far from the school or the route back home to our first house. I see mothers with their young children, the kids playing and skipping and their mothers encouraging them to get into the car or quickly get home.

It’s now 11 years since mum died and it fascinates me how the memories of my youth are starting to resurface, triggered by at times striking, at times mundane moments.

It’s been known that memories prior to a bereavement can sometimes get covered up, perhaps due to the mind wanting to protect me from the pain of recollection. As I continue to let go of the need for control and as the fears built up over the decades start to dissolve, the memories calmly, clearly and lovingly come to light… and they pass.

So here I am, observing these memories, these fond memories of my youth, arising and passing, arising and passing.

I observe the seemingly real protection of our parents, the subsequent realisation that there is no-one in this world who can ever truly provide protection, and the journey taken to identify and embrace the one place where solace, then calm, then stillness and then joy is progressively uncovered.

In the midst of the storm, it is this place that draws me in, humbled with the knowledge, protection and serenity that all is and will forever be well.

When you’re craving to talk with friends about death but don’t know whether those friends would welcome such a conversation, where do you go?

Founded in September 2011, Death Café is one of the world’s largest community engagement projects around death, where people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.

With the aim of increasing awareness of death and help people make the most of their (finite) lives, a Death Café is a group directed discussion of death with no agenda, objectives or themes. It is a discussion group rather than a bereavement support or counselling session.

My very first experience of attending a Death Café

While I’d known about it for over five years and hadn’t yet managed to attend one of the many Death Cafés that take place in over 30 countries around the world, I happened to come across a poster for it in my local library this week – Wealdstone Death Café was taking place that very evening – I signed up immediately, not quite knowing whether it would be my cup of tea.

As my first ever Death Café, I found it to be an excellent experience, surrounded by new friends, all able to talk comfortably about death and topics closely related to death, in a safe environment.

The event helped to reaffirm and enrich my existing views and feelings about the inevitability of death and how to embrace the valuable gift of life.

It was a well facilitated event and we had a decent sized respectful group who felt comfortable delving into personal stories, challenges and possible shifts in perspective.

If someone told me they were thinking of attending a Death Café, I would say: “Absolutely consider attending if you are looking for a safe space to discuss and explore the topic of death and what it means to live. Be prepared to listen with an open heart, to ask questions thoughtfully and to refrain from giving advice or pushing your own views. You will probably even make some new friends!”

Find an event near you: Forthcoming Death Cafés

Hosting your own Death Café

Death Cafés are always offered:

• On a not for profit basis
• In an accessible, respectful and confidential space
• With no intention of leading people to any conclusion, product or course of action
• Alongside refreshing drinks and nourishing food – and cake!

The team at Death Café have produced an incredible easy-to-follow how-to guide on hosting your own Death Café. If you decide to set one up on the back of reading this article, I would love to hear how it goes – drop me a note!

Mum grew up in Mombasa, a relaxing coastal town in East Africa. It’s where she had studied, formed close friendships and first met my dad. My brother and I, as we grew up, would hear stories of the infamous “lighthouse” where all the youth would gather outdoors in the evenings to hang out, for music and hot food – makai (corn on the cob), mogo (cassava) and chips, not forgetting madaf nu pani (coconut water) and perhaps other drinks they never told me about.

We’d had a number of beach holidays together over the years, with our last family holiday together in Aruba, just after I graduated from uni – again close to the water. When I attended a conference near Lago Maggiore in Italy and had sat by the lake on a beautiful June afternoon in 2005, I had vowed to take mum there so she too could enjoy a cappuccino overlooking the lake – but I never got round to taking her there. Now that I can, it’s of course too late.

This September will mark 10 years since mum died. A few weeks after she passed away, most of the family, including my maternal grandmother, had made the day trip to Brighton to scatter mum’s ashes, somewhere along the coastline that I’m overlooking right now.

If mum was here, staying at the same hotel, staying in the same part of the hotel (facing north so not overlooking the sea), I feel I would have upgraded her room to enjoy the sea view from her room. Even with limited mobility, at least she could have enjoyed that. Then I would have brought her down for breakfast to enjoy the sea view from the hotel restaurant. We would have had far too many mugs of tea together, making the most of the unlimited refills!

But sadly she is no longer around and these gestures no matter how grand or small, cannot come to fruition. This makes my eyes well-up realising the futility of my wishes for mum and I to have any more of those experiences together.

On this bright spring morning, as I finish my second mug of tea while overlooking the turbulent waves crashing against the pebbly Brighton shore, my heart is filled with sadness and regret.

While it’s been almost a decade since mum died, these feelings of regret are surfacing only now. I realise too, that while there’s nothing I can do to make up for all that’s left undone, it’s certainly within my reach to simply observe what’s coming up and let it pass in it’s own natural time, in it’s own natural way.

I have a choice now to either get bashed about by the rough waters or to upgrade to the sea view and calmly observe whatever comes up. Like each wave along Brighton’s coast that builds up momentum and gradually comes to rest, even these turbulent feelings will comes to pass.