A Beginner’s Guide to Dying Just Enough

I’m not a very brave person, naturally. I’m what they called a “good girl,” a “poor soul,” a “miracle baby.” My mother died in childbirth. I was a C-section, and—like they so often do with Black mothers—the doctors let her die from something as simple as ignoring her blood pressure, despite my dad’s pleas for help.

Knowing this growing up made me paranoid about doing anything that could kill me, whether the danger was real or imagined. My dad, with his kind, sad eyes and ever-ready hugs, did not share my fear. He tried fruitlessly to get me on bikes, rolling down gentle hills at our neighborhood park. I refused and played delicately in the sandbox instead. He tried to get me to skateboard—somehow thinking that if I wouldn’t get on two wheels, four would be more appealing, despite the readymade tripping hazards on both ends. I did learn how to swim, though, because not knowing how could lead to drowning. Plus, we live in Redondo Beach. It’s kind of necessary to at least know how to doggy paddle.

I was equally cautious in school. I didn’t take risks—creative or otherwise. I turned in technically perfect work and earned a 4.0 GPA and a cloak of invisibility. At 18 years old, my legs were flawless, unscarred. Meanwhile, every other girl in my class had at least three scars—usually from sports or other normal childhood events. I had never let myself fall in love, so my heart was unbruised. I didn’t allow myself to dream, so my mind had never been stretched.

Eventually, my dad had enough. He made me apply only to out-of-state colleges. If I didn’t, he said, he wouldn’t cover my application fees. I thought it was cruel and unnecessary, but I did it—college was simply the next step in my rote life. Thanks to my GPA and lack of extracurriculars, I got accepted to most of the out-of-state schools I applied to—except the really good ones. As an act of rebellion, I chose a school in Alaska. I expected my dad to blanch and forbid it. But instead, he smiled, said it was an excellent choice, bought me my first real winter jacket, and sent me off to Anchorage.

I fucked around and found myself in a huge, yet tiny, freezing state with very few Black people and a winter that never seemed to end.

If the goal was to stay safe forever, Alaska was the worst possible place to go. Everyone I met either hunted, knew someone who did, or was just a little unhinged. Instead of politely declining dangerous activities, I had to actively say no—to bouldering, ice fishing, wilderness hikes, dog-sledding, kayaking around sharp glaciers.

Somewhere in sophomore year, two things changed everything. I fell in love—twice.

Ice fishing had been out of the question, but that summer, on a whim, I accepted an invitation to go fishing at Kenai River with a group of people I generally called friends. Desperate for warm sun after Alaska’s brutal winter, I said yes. I donned the gear provided, feeling like a rubber glove—until I got in the water and made my first successful cast. With the sun on my head, the water running below me, and the trees greener than anything I’d seen at Redondo Beach, I felt more at peace than I ever had. That moment showed me how much I had stressed myself out my entire life. The fear was self-inflicted, so ingrained it felt normal. I caught my first fish and felt a thrill through my body unlike anything before. I wanted more.

I looked to my left, and there she was—Sadie, the other Black girl who had ended up in Alaska. We smiled at each other. That line was cast too.

Sadie was from Mississippi, of all places. She loved fishing, and unlike me, she lived for thrills. Her move to Anchorage had been inspired by her desire to experience something that was the exact opposite of the life she had grown up in. Her hair was wild as the wind, and so was her laugh. Her eyes were bright, hazel in dark skin that seemed sun-kissed even when the sun was ignoring our existence. Sadie was reckless and reveled in it. “What’s the point of living,” she asked, “if you’re not actually going to live? Might as well be dead.” She made me wonder if, all along, I had wanted to die—like my mother, who risked her life to bring me into the world. I realized I didn’t want to die anymore.

I let Sadie take me dog-sledding, hiking, kayaking. She taught me how to ride a bike. The first time she let me go, I fell and skinned my knee. I never felt anything so beautiful as blood running down my leg and Sadie’s hand on my back, asking if I was okay—if I could stand up. I could stand up. Turns out falling doesn’t mean you have to stay down. Falling isn’t death.

When winter returned, Sadie and I went ice fishing. It still sounded dumb—walking onto frozen water, drilling a hole in it, and waiting in the freezing cold? Literally, why? But by then, I was chasing thrill. The danger that ice fishing posed was thrilling. I was also chasing Sadie’s body. We hadn’t named our relationship yet. Sadie had been clear about how she felt. I guess I hoped she’d understand me through osmosis, but that’s not how it works. I planned to use that day on the ice to tell her, definitively.

Sadie had invited a few others, but they bailed out of caution—it was still early in the season. Nothing could stop Sadie, though. Enough people were out to make her feel justified in going. And since she was going, so was I. We were inseparable by then.

We headed to a lake near Anchorage, the surface covered in ice and snow. Carefully, we made our way out with our gear. I was terrified, even with Sadie’s reassuring smile. Her smile was the only thing that kept me going. I wanted nothing more than to see it again, to feel the ultimate thrill of finally telling her I loved her.

But I followed her smile—not the creaks, not the crunches. Sadie frowned at the sound, but I kept grinning like an idiot until the ice gave way and I was underwater. Everything went silent.

I should have been scared to death. I’d spent my whole life scared to death. And now, death was in my bones, in my nostrils, pulling me down. I couldn’t swim hard enough to release myself.

But death wasn’t tragedy. It wasn’t fear. It was peace. I felt… peace. Nothing mattered—not even Sadie. I felt a pang in my heart—a heart finally starting to collect bruises, now freezing over. I would have liked to tell her everything. But it didn’t matter. I’d be dead soon.

Then, I felt myself being pulled up—dragged across the ice. It wasn’t just Sadie. Others had seen me fall and helped get me out. I was too cold to even feel cold. The world blurred until I blacked out completely.

When I woke, I was in the hospital, soaked clothes gone, heat radiating all around me. Sadie stood at the window, elbows on the sill, her dark hair tied back messily, barely restrained by her hair ties.

“Sadie,” I called gently. She turned quickly and practically leaped to my bed.

“Oh shit, you’re awake. Fuck, you scared me.” Relief poured from her eyes as she grabbed my hand.

“Sadie, I’ma tell you something, okay? And it’s not because I just almost died or whatever.” I paused, feeling that familiar thrill—the one that felt like ice water.

“Dude—I love you. Will you be my girlfriend?”

Sadie laughed that laugh I loved. “Dude,” she said, mocking my Californian vocabulary like she often does, “finally. Yes.”

The thrill didn’t kill me. Neither had the ice water. And even if it had—at least I would’ve felt it. At least the deed would’ve been done. No regrets.

Life guarantees death. Thrill is a reminder of our mortality. It’s also proof that we’re still alive.