The memory of the sultry summer night that I became acutely aware of mortality is all too fresh. The fear was so intense it felt like nausea and despair seeping into my tiny body, damp with sweat. Overwhelmed, I started to sob, the natural reaction of an upset 8-year-old.

The awareness soon brought a deluge of anxieties. After yet another night of nonstop sobbing, my grandma finally snapped: “Quit it! You are too little to worry about that!”

That put an end to my bouts of panic. Yes, death was scary, but it was so distant I could ignore it. Though the thought of it still makes me cringe, the wave of fear passed. I went back to being the light-hearted child that I was.

Given where I am today, my childhood terror seemed to leave me largely unscathed: I relentlessly pursued my goal of becoming a financially, emotionally and intellectually independent woman. I made it to a top business school in the U.S. and landed my dream job after graduation. Looking over the sprawling Bay Area from my office located in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district, I thought the power of my ambitions could help me push through anything.

Except mortality, my arch-nemesis.

I was scrolling news feeds, getting my daily dose of Californian positivity and Silicon Valley stimulants – organic dishes, gravity-defying yoga poses, start-ups’ soaring valuations - when I got the message that my mother had cancer. As I glared at my phone, the old terror returned. I spent the entire day in bed, too devastated to get up. 

Try as I may to ignore it, there was no escape. I wasn’t 8 years old anymore. I needed to do something.

So, I did. In three weeks, I transitioned out of job, packed up and returned to cloudy Chengdu, my hometown. I found the city’s best oncology doctor for my mother and, for myself, a therapist, piles of literature on the subject of death and yoga classes. I figured I needed to be strong emotionally, mentally and physically.

The next six months were chaos: emotional breakdowns mixed with house chores, convincing my mother to go to chemotherapy and taking care of her during chemotherapy, selling my parents’ house to pay for the mounting hospital bills, buying and renovating a new, smaller apartment, mum’s surgery…

Turns out, when faced with death, I had grown more likely to act than to collapse in grief and fear. 

And I learned some things: how to stay calm in a crisis, take responsibility for all areas of my life and show up for the people I care about. I’ve also learned to be present and let go of petty things that subtract from the joy and gratitude that came with this newfound perspective.

My mother survived. She’s in remission. But contemplating mortality has become a regular practice. When I’m sulking after some setback, I remind myself that our time here is way too short.

Then I lean into my life again.