Dying is a part of life. I tell this story because it deeply touched me—and because I have the right to tell it. I asked—and received a joyful, surprised yes. It is sacred to me.

Your path

Four years earlier, she came to me for therapy. Ms. G, in her early sixties, exhausted, hurt, depressed. She also came to me with the desire to incorporate her Christian spirituality into therapy; it was important to her, a part of her life. She came because she was becoming increasingly less resilient and was in rehab for burnout. It was there that the knowledge of her experience of sexual violence surfaced. She wanted to resolve it, to find clarity. To heal so that she could be there for others again, so that she could participate in life again. But that wasn't possible; she was desperate, it was so exhausting. A life full of paralysis: a family home that belittled her, a mother who constantly told her that her facial expressions, her gestures, her behavior—these were nails in her coffin. And—sexual violence. The consequences? She had shrunk herself down whenever others raised their voices. She often didn't know what she wanted anymore. She froze when a man stood at the front door. She painstakingly distanced herself from her parents; It was as difficult for her as it was good for her. She lived with the incomprehension of her family of origin—and stopped letting her siblings pressure her. Her own life became more important to her. She once said: God didn't create her to suffer, but to live in freedom. "Honoring father and mother"—for her, that didn't mean accepting everything. Distancing herself was almost impossible, but essential for her well-being, for her vitality. She had built her own family: her children, whom she loved, her husband, with whom she was very close. That was her home. That was where she could grow. And enable her children to grow. With her humor, with her love. And there was always a spark, a light, within her that she herself often couldn't see. She found joy in life, again and again, sang, enjoyed ice cream, loved to play, and so on… Her faith was a quiet but sustaining foundation. Often in the background—and always there. For years she had followed this calling, even if she sometimes didn't feel the divine mystery. In therapy, she stopped demanding that her faith always be strong, unquestioned, enthusiastic. She didn't have to shine. She didn't have to achieve. What she believed was enough. She herself was enough.

Diagnosis and development.

During the course of therapy, another diagnosis became clear: a serious, incurable, progressive illness. Daily life became more confined, her strength diminished. In the end, we could only see each other via video. This diagnosis brought her an insight: I am not the one who "hasn't processed things properly." I am not to blame for my misery. I have a history—but it is not the cause of my fatigue. The fatigue, the exhaustion, the physical limitations do not show that I am imperfect or wrong. They show that I am ill. And when this thought sank in, the depression lifted. Now she could look to the future. She could feel herself better. She asked herself: What can I do now, with my limitations, with my restrictions? What do I still want to do? She traveled to her favorite country one last time. She brought clarity to her work, even though it was very difficult for her because she loved her job and her position. She retired. She welcomed her grandchild as a new member of the world and enjoyed spending time with her children. She lived—with her limitations and restrictions. I would say: more than before.

A disconcerting possibility.

And then, one day, she said, "I'd like to talk to you about voluntary stopping of eating and drinking." I was taken aback. "Why?" "Because I want to know what you think about it." I explained to her what I had to explain: that everyone has the right to decide about the end of their own life.¹ That suicide and attempted suicide are not crimes. That assisting a voluntary suicide is also not a crime.² That my job is to assess whether a decision is free or an expression of mental illness.³ Then I would have to intervene. And that I fundamentally agree with this. She nodded. And then she said, "I myself want to stop eating and drinking. I've been thinking about it for a long time. I don't want to live anymore. It's enough. I want to go home. I long to return to where I came from. My work here is done. And I want to know what you think; your opinion is important to me." I was honest: „This is a difficult topic. But I believe that everyone has a right to self-determination. Voluntary stopping of eating and drinking is fundamentally possible. However, I won't be able to accompany you during the acute phase—that would be too much for me in my therapeutic role right now. But please tell me.“ She told me. About the fatigue. About the physical limitations. About her inner clarity. About the certainty that her time here was coming to an end. About her faith, which sustained her. Perhaps she was a little like the phoenix, sensing that its cycle is ending, preparing its final nest and settling in it—knowing that it will catch fire. Knowing that this dying is a transition: that with death, this cycle ends, however perfect or imperfect it may have been, and from the ashes, her other, her new life arises. „Do you have anyone who is supporting you?“ She had spoken with her husband. With her children. With her children-in-law. And they are all supporting her. That touched her deeply. For her children and for her, it became a path like that of the phoenix. It was on her urn. It was on her obituary.

Yes to oneself.

I investigated and documented that there was no mental illness that impaired her free will. She and her husband confirmed in writing that it was her free will. We continued working until Easter, when she began her voluntary fasting: first slowly stopping eating, then drinking less and less. She was under professional supervision. She told us how honestly and fearlessly she and her family dealt with it. How her daughter asked, "Is there anything you want to say to us?" And how she listened to her inner voice and gave everyone something, like a quiet blessing. Everyone cried. Until her grandchild threw a crumpled piece of paper that landed in her cup—and suddenly everyone laughed. "That's how it is right now," she said. "Crying and laughter are so close together. And it's as if we're all being carried." She said, "Everything is prepared." The funeral, all the legal stuff, the cards, everything. She didn't want a cross carried at the beginning of her funeral procession—she wanted the Resurrection candle. She had fought for it; She was still angry at some of the things around her. The pension insurance company, which still wanted an expert opinion even though she was bedridden. The health insurance company, which hadn't understood how seriously ill she was and kept asking the same questions. Anger at an old acquaintance, a pastor, who broke off contact because he couldn't support her path. "Why does this affect me so much?" she asked, annoyed with herself. "I should be over it by now, knowing that my time here is over." As if it were a failure that it still hurt. I replied, "Not all wounds can be healed here. We walk before God—even wounded. And we are allowed to be. We don't have to be perfect, not even at the end of life." She took a deep breath and simply said, "Thank you."„

Farewell.

In our last session, she thanked me again for the therapy: she had learned to stand up for herself – and therefore also to say yes to voluntary stopping of eating and drinking. I had to swallow hard – a strange compliment. And then I sensed its depth.
Since Christian spirituality was always important to her in therapy, I asked if I could read her a poem. She said yes and wanted it sent to her after she had heard it. Death of Giannina Wedde. I asked if she wanted to hear the Lord's Prayer in Aramaic—her eyes shone. And I asked if she wanted a blessing. She simply said, "Yes, please." There was more life in this, her final journey, than there had been five years before. It was her path. This path was not easy, but it was her choice. And the foundation of this path was not fear, but an affirmation of herself, love, clarity, and dignity. And she was accompanied—by her family, by the hospice, by friends. And by the divine mystery, which was self-evident to her, both as grounding and as longing. She wanted to go home. A few days later, she sent me a photo with her grandson. They were lying together in bed, looking at each other. Title: Last Picture. I simply replied, "Thank you. Blessed."„