Life Without Living: A Definition Essay

There are many times in a day when people will ask me how I am. For as often as this question is asked, however, most people don’t really want to hear an honest answer. A lot of the time, it’s a filler question, one asked out of courtesy or to fill the empty space before a conversation begins. If I thought they cared about an honest, complete answer, I might say, “My quads hurt because of cross country practice last night and I’m worried about getting the opener for the marching show memorized and I’m stressing out about college applications and I’m not sure how much longer my boyfriend and I are going to be together.” I know that’s not the reply they’re looking for, though, so it’s not the reply I give. When people ask how you are, they’re usually looking for an affirmation that you’re generally okay before they begin a conversation about whatever it is they really want to talk about. With that in mind, I usually state, quite simply, “I’m living,” which they take as an acceptable answer before moving on to more important topics like when our next Comp paper is due or if the football team is going to win the big game on Friday.

Afterwards, I often think about my response to that initial question. “I’m living.” Those two words can mean so many different things. We’re all living, in the sense that we are breathing. My heart is pumping blood through my arteries and veins, the synapses in my brain are firing and sending information to move my limbs, and my immune system is fighting bacteria to keep me healthy. These things are normal; these bodily functions are what keep us alive. The question is, is that all that living really entails?

My grandma has Alzheimer’s, a degenerative brain disease that causes dementia. Someday, she won’t remember how to feed herself; further down the road, she won’t even remember how to breathe on her own, and they will hook her up to machines that keep her alive. “Alive.” With the help of machines, she will be “alive,” but will she be living? Her lungs will still be expanding, sending oxygen into the bloodstream and taking carbon dioxide out of her body. Her heart will still be pumping, making sure that the tissues in her body have sufficient supplies to keep working. Her synapses will still be firing, though the disease will have lowered her brain activity drastically. She will be alive, but I wouldn’t call that “living.”

Living involves more than just being alive. To be alive doesn’t take much conscious effort on our part; our bodies are built to stay alive under some of the most strenuous circumstances. Living is more than breathing, which we do even when we’re in a coma. Living is more than synapses firing, more than arteries transporting oxygen-rich blood, more than “having life.”

Recently, my two best friends and I had a “girly night.” We met in town and ate dinner together. We went back to Shannon’s house and listened to a new CD. I talked to my boyfriend on the phone as we made brownie batter and ate it without baking brownies. With a spoon full of rich, gooey chocolate and the three of us seated on barstools in the kitchen, I felt truly alive – I felt as though I was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, living. There was more to that moment than simply breathing, more than my lungs inhaling-exhaling, more than my heart thump-thumping. There was something unexplainable, something that was part sunshine and part Christmas dinners and part friendship and part life, that isn’t in every moment of our lives. That mixture of happiness and contentment, of smiles and laughter and friendship, is part of what makes us able to live.

There are countless ways to be “living.” When I have important conversations with people and feel I’ve discussed something truly important with them, there is a bit of life in that. When I have an evening with my parents, my boyfriend, or my best friends that ends with the realization that there really is love and acceptance in my life, there is living in that, too. When the band finishes a marching show and stands on the field under the bright lights, knowing that we’ve accomplished something we’ve worked hard for, the exhilaration we all experience screams of life. When I cross the finish line of a cross country race, my muscles burning and my lungs straining, there is the hard edge of life in every gasping breath I take.

For some people, taking risks is how they feel alive. Sky divers jump out of planes two miles in the air, snowboarders reach incredibly high speeds, and motocross riders do tricks that could easily end in death. They don’t feel like those sports are first and foremost about challenging death, though; for them, it’s about the thrill, the feeling of living life to its fullest.

Really, all you must do to live is what you love. Live life so that when you look back in five, ten, or thirty years, you won’t regret what you did or didn’t do. When you inhale and exhale and know you haven’t wasted that breath, you know that you are well and truly living.