Growing up, I seemed to think about everything more than my friends did. I often thought about dying, or being dead. It may be explained by the Friday night meetings I got taken to by well-meaning Plymouth Brethren Christians. They collected us in their cars (no child protection or safeguarding back then) and took us to a small hut in the local village which was owned by the highly respected Postmaster. There, we were fed sweets whilst simultaneously reciting bible verses, and gustily singing choruses that spoke of black hearts; the blood of the lamb; and hell, fire and damnation. To my 9-year-old sensitivities it was all completely horrific.

Those early experiences shaped me irreparably until, in my forties, I became aware that I had been afraid my whole life, and that what I had been taught back then about my life and my inevitable death had coloured everything I’d been told since. I found the strength eventually to begin to unravel the belief that I would be judged when I died and hopefully go to heaven. I had long since reckoned that hell was a fantastical and outdated notion. I was still however left with the highly unsatisfactory idea that I would have to eternally worship an unfathomable God-type figure.

Finally, aged 47, I stepped away and no longer believed what I had been told as a child. I lost friends, and even my identity for a while, but finally I was free and no longer afraid.

One day I was half listening to an interview on Radio 4 when the women speaking announced that she would be compost when she died. My ears pricked up, what a wonderful thought, that I would simply be compost when life’s breath left me. My mortality is no longer a concern.

Death? I’m terrified by death; my to-do list is too long for death. As a humanist, death is a sign of the finality of my being. The end of me. I struggle with the idea of no more internal dialogue. Nothingness. It seems hardly credible, let alone possible. But it is so. I do occasionally feel jealous of my religious friends, with their presumed self-assurance of immortality in another realm. Humanism brings with it rather a cold, harsh reality of life: the end of me really is the end of me.

But, humanism brings a way to deal with this harshness: make the best of my only life. Okay. I’ve become vegan. I have walked the wards of hospitals as a pastoral supporter. I imbue critical thought in others; how to spot snake oil from palm oil. I’ve started a charity that aims to tackle inequality. I look to treat everyone I meet with respect and warmth. To build bridges and not walls. Especially with people who have very different outlooks on life to myself.

If death comes sooner rather than later, I may not finish my to-dos. But I know I am making the best of the life I have. If I am unable to continue with my projects, maybe others will pick up the batons I leave behind; maybe change for the better will occur after my demise.

Humanist mortality is harsh, but it offers the means by which to make the best of it. I must bring meaning to what I am and what I do. By following humanist principles, I can meet my finality, safe in the knowledge that I did what I could with the time I had and maybe, hopefully, make the world a slightly better place in the process.

Many will tell you it is not rational to fear death. Why worry about non-existence, they ask. They are right, but I still do. It’s only natural I guess, an innate part of us that some can overcome but many, myself included, can’t. Some suggest we seek solace in the legacy we leave behind us after we’ve gone. Children perhaps, the memories others hold of us, the ripples of the good we have done. Yet I have no children, memories will too die with those who hold them, and ripples fade away to nothing over time. Anyway, even if I could console myself a little in that way, I’m not sure how much effect it would have chasing away the fear of death.

So, what to do? Especially as, entering my 60s, I’m aware that death is no longer the distant prospect it once was. My answer is to remind myself that time spent worrying about it is precious time wasted for no purpose. It will make no difference to the inevitable end of my life, just sap the pleasure I can enjoy in the meanwhile. The one little piece of good I can draw from the occasional pang of fear is to see it as a reminder to make the most of what life is left to me. I would like to think that will be many years, but I need to be conscious that I may not be so fortunate.

I’m lucky that I am retired now and can focus on making the most of the time remaining. I hope that, when the end does come I can look back on my life with some satisfaction, or at least the minimum of regrets.