Coffin on Wheels
TW: I’m talking about death. Specifically wanting to die. I’m not suicidal, this is just a safe space for me to write about this. Please don’t worry. I’m really happy and at peace with MY life. Y’all are a mess.
I live in peace. I’ve found a rhythm in the chaos of life—a stillness that feels like calm. For years, I chased dreams that weren’t mine, carried burdens I didn’t choose, and fought battles I never wanted to fight. I’ve let go of the hunger for more, the pressure to achieve, and the need to be seen as successful. I don’t need a big house, a legacy, or a trophy. I live simply, intentionally, and with a contentment that feels whole.
And yet, I long to die in piece.
Not in despair, tragedy, or a desperate act of escape. Not in a way that leaves others grieving, confused, or whispering about selfishness. I don’t feel sad or broken. In fact, I feel whole—whole enough to know that I’m done. I’ve seen, felt, and experienced enough for one lifetime. What more is there to do? For me, living in peace means recognizing that I’ve reached the end of what I want to experience. And dying in piece means stepping aside when the time is right, leaving quietly, intentionally, and without creating burdens for others.
But the world isn’t built to honor this kind of peace. Society is obsessed with more—more success, more years, more striving. To want less is seen as giving up. To step aside is framed as weakness or selfishness. But I don’t want more. I don’t need more. I’ve found my peace, and that is enough.
If you’re happy, enough is all you need. If you’re not happy, no amount will ever be enough. This is something I’ve come to understand through years of searching and surviving. I’m not sad. I don’t wake up feeling like something is missing or wishing for things I don’t have. There’s nothing left I need to do, no grand adventures or goals I feel called to chase. I’ve experienced all I want to experience, and nothing I see—day in or day out—makes me want to live more.
What I do want is to help others find this peace.
Maybe that’s what my remaining time is for. Maybe my role now is to step into others’ lives and help them organize their chaos. If you need more time, I can give you mine. If you need more love, I have cuddles to share (if we’re compatible). If you need more money, maybe I’ll work for free so you can get ahead a little. I don’t need much—just a bed, water, and gas for my car. I drive around in my coffin, a humble vehicle that serves as a practical reminder of the life I’ve already lived and the death I’m prepared for. When we run out of renewable energy, I’ll need even less. All I truly need is my health, which is why I take care of myself.
When my body gives out, I’ll do my best to save it, but never at the cost of my peace. I won’t cling to life out of obligation or fear. I won’t bankrupt myself—or anyone else—just to extend a life that already feels full. That isn’t peace. And peace is all I’ve ever wanted.
To me, living in abundance while others suffer feels cruel. How can someone truly be happy while hoarding more than they need in a world where so many struggle to survive? Happiness doesn’t come from abundance. It comes from knowing what is enough. I’ve found that enough, and now I see my role as sharing it—teaching others how to let go of the noise and the endless striving so they, too, can find their piece of peace.
But I know this way of thinking is rare. We live in a world that equates happiness with accumulation and meaning with productivity. Society tells us that our lives are valuable only if we’re working, achieving, and constantly moving forward. Even the act of resting—of saying, “I’ve done enough”—is treated as a rebellion. Choosing to step aside, to live with less, or to leave on your own terms is seen as a betrayal of life itself. But I don’t see it that way. I see it as wisdom.
Dying in piece, for me, is about taking up less space when it’s time. It’s about leaving quietly and respectfully, without causing chaos or grief. It’s about ensuring that no one is left behind to mourn unnecessarily, raise money for my burial, or fight over my belongings. I want to leave as gracefully as I’ve learned to live.
If my death could save someone else, I’d give my life in an instant. No questions asked. We glamorize the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, treating it as noble because it was dictated by a higher power. But what if we reclaimed that idea of sacrifice as something we choose for ourselves? What if we allowed people to step aside when they’ve done all they can, when their presence is no longer necessary or desired
For now, though, I stay. I stay because my presence still matters to others, even if I don’t feel the need to keep going. I stay because there are still people who need organizing, love, support, and time—things I can offer. I stay because this world isn’t ready for people like me, people who are ready to leave without guilt or shame. My departure would still be misunderstood, labeled as despair or selfishness instead of what it truly is: a calm, deliberate choice.
So, I live in peace, even if I can’t yet die in peace. I live because I fought too hard for this peace to abandon it carelessly. I live because my presence still carries weight for those who haven’t found their own peace. And I live because this world hasn’t yet made room for the kind of exit I long for.
Maybe one day, we’ll live in a world where choosing your own ending isn’t seen as a betrayal of life itself. Maybe one day, we’ll celebrate those who’ve lived enough to feel full, even if their fullness doesn’t align with society’s endless appetite for more. Until then, I’ll keep living, whole and weary, but content. I’ll keep driving my coffin, holding onto the quiet joy of having enough, and doing what I can to help others find their own piece of peace.
When my time comes, I hope to leave as I’ve lived: intentionally, quietly, and without leaving behind a burden. Until then, I’ll live as I am, grateful for the peace I’ve found and waiting for the moment when the world is ready to honor the way I choose to leave.