How Much Do You Value Your Life?

Daniel Kahneman's final decision feels almost like an elegant conclusion to one of his many research papers—deliberate, just, the product of his famously meticulous mind.

Last month we learned that the Israeli Nobel laureate chose to end his life in Switzerland at the age of 90. He wasn't terminally ill. He could still visit the Pompidou in Paris, savor chocolate mousse in some corner cafe on rue Vieille-du-Temple, engage intellectually. But on March 27, 2024, he exited on his terms, writing that he wanted to "forestall natural decline" he'd witnessed in loved ones.

Kahneman's choice crystallizes a question I've been wrestling with for some time now: why do some people fight desperately to extend life while others accept its natural end with relative ease?

Is it an unwillingness to let go? A fear of the void? Regrets that haunt?

Whatever it is, I don’t seem to share it. Maybe I value my life less than many people, though not less than Kahneman.

Before you rush to send crisis hotline numbers, I'm not depressed. I'm happier than I've been in years. I just spent a month in Japan with my family—meeting strange strangers in bars of Tokyo’s Golden Gai district, feasting on wagyu with Chris Kavanagh, watching my teenage kids' eyes widen at their first glimpse of a humpback whale off the coast of Okinawa—and it hit me with absolute clarity: I live a genuinely, ridiculously charmed life. Nonetheless, I think I view existence differently than many people I know. Nonexistence just doesn't terrify me.

Imagine someone offers you one extra year of good life—not being 93 in a nursing home kind of year, but a vibrant year filled with travel, pickleball, and meaningful connections. How much would you pay?

Some would empty their accounts for those 365 days. Others might mortgage their homes. Me? Maybe I'd buy a cheaper car. But drain my travel fund? Not a chance.

This isn't about being stingy. It's about how I value existence. While others hoard each additional day like treasure, I see life as a good party—wonderful while it lasts, but not something to artificially extend.

Even if guaranteed perfect health until death, I still wouldn't obsess over maximizing my lifespan. I want quality years, yes, but I don't need to reach some arbitrary maximum. I don’t view extending my life as an achievement worth restructuring my existence around.

This crystallized during the Omicron wave of COVID in December of 2021. Ontario had given us a fleeting taste of normalcy before yanking it away with another lockdown. Something in me finally snapped. Fuck it, I thought. Let's go bowling. Life's too short for endless precautions.

Don't mistake this for recklessness. I cared about not infecting others. But I couldn't stomach sacrificing everything just to avoid getting sick myself. Life demands living, not just surviving.

That's when it hit me: The rewards of fully living usually outweigh the risks for me. And I'm surprisingly unbothered by those risks—even the ultimate one. I'm at peace with potentially checking out while I can still ride my bicycle to work.

Kahneman made a similar calculation. He didn't wait until life became unbearable. He chose to leave while still enjoying Paris, while still learning. His decision was "inevitably premature".

Contrast this with our culture's longevity craze. Tech millionaire Bryan Johnson dedicates immense resources to extending his life through extreme anti-aging regimens. Andrew Huberman's podcast promises longevity through elaborate morning routines.

This distinction matters: Johnson and his ilk aren't just seeking healthy years—they're seeking more years, period. Not merely avoiding disease but pushing past natural limits. It's the difference between wanting to remain vibrant and wanting to remain, full stop.

Why this desperate fear of nonexistence? Terror Management Theory suggests humans will do almost anything to avoid confronting mortality. While the empirical evidence supporting it, like so much of social psychology, is a hot mess, its core insight is genuinely thought-provoking: we're smart enough to know we'll die, but not quite smart enough to deal with that knowledge gracefully. To cope with this realization, we build elaborate psychological defenses, from religion to capitalism to Instagram followers, all in service of convincing ourselves we'll achieve some form of symbolic immortality.

This insight about our desperate attempts to deny death ring true when I look at our current culture of optimization and life extension. The cold plunges, the supplements, the obsessive tracking of every biological marker—it all looks less like health consciousness and more like death denial in scientific drag.

Kahneman, who spent his career studying human irrationality, made a more rational choice: evaluating life's diminishing returns and exiting at the optimal moment.

My comfort with mortality isn't resignation or nihilism. It makes me more alive to possibilities.

In my twenties, I took a questionable bus from Copenhagen to Amsterdam. I struck up a conversation with a Dutch guy my age, and by journey's end, he offered me his empty apartment for the night, since he was staying at his girlfriend's place. When I tell this story now, people look at me like I've lost my mind. But, I saw a chance to meet interesting people and save some money on a hostel. Sure, I get that the stakes and calculations are different for others, especially women, who must weigh a whole different set of risks. But for me personally, my reward-seeking nature barely registered the risks that seem so obvious to others. And wouldn't you know it—I got a free place to crash, met his fascinating roommate, and walked away with a great story.

While others might spend hours researching safety statistics or obsessing over worst-case scenarios, I'm more likely to shrug and say, "Why not?" It's not that I'm totally reckless—I too avoid taking candy from strangers in windowless vans—I just don't feel that need to optimize every choice for maximum safety that I see in many others.

This perspective shapes my life. I ride a motorcycle, despite everyone reminding me how dangerous they are. Nothing makes me feel more alive than my Rebel 500 growling beneath me on a twisty country road. The joy dwarfs the risk.

I don't carry massive water bottles or obsess over longevity research—and not only because the science behind most health claims are bunk—but because marginal life extension just isn't that compelling to me. I'd rather drink when I'm thirsty and I’d rather enjoy my warm bed than jump into freezing water at dawn because some podcast guru with questionable ethics promised it might add months to my life.

Others might call this selfish. I have family and students who depend on me, after all. Fair point. I take reasonable precautions: helmets, check-ups, legitimate medical advice.

But where does consideration for others become living for others? Must I give up my motorcycle entirely? There's something unsettling about organizing our existence around others' anxieties about our mortality.

Kahneman faced similar questions. His farewell acknowledged many would see his decision as premature. But he chose what mattered most: autonomy and dignity. Waiting until life becomes "obviously no longer worth living" means you've already waited too long.

I wonder if our culture's obsession with extending life isn't itself pathological. The longevity cult isn't just about avoiding suffering; it's about the inability to accept that life must end. What if this desperate clutching reflects an existential anxiety that's neither necessary nor beneficial?

Kahneman's farewell email ended: "Thank you all for helping me to make this life a good one." Not a long one. A good one.

So how much do I value my life? Enough to live it well, but not so much that I think overly hard about extending it. In that space between cherishing existence and accepting its end, I wonder if I’ve found freedom.