John Lennon: “Why I’m Not Afraid of Death at 84
“I’ve lived an extraordinary life,” John Lennon reflects, his voice calm, even warm. “There’s been loss, yes. There’s been wild success. I’ve had moments of despair and moments of joy so intense, it’s hard to describe. But at some point, you realize it’s not about chasing legacy—it’s about being present, and the most important thing is having and knowing fully well that you’ve lived — truly, deeply, honestly.”
At 84, Lennon no longer feels the need to perform for the world. The Lennon of the 1960s—loud, clever, defiant—was trying to make sense of chaos, to find his place in the whirlwind of fame and revolution. But this Lennon, older and unafraid, speaks from a place of peace that only comes with age and acceptance.
“You spend the first half of your life trying to get somewhere, prove something, be someone,” he says, brushing a hand through his silver hair. “But the real work is in learning how to just be. I used to fear death because I thought it meant vanishing. Now I know it just means changing.”
Lennon’s journey has always been about transformation. From the working-class boy in Liverpool to the Beatle who shook the world, from the solo artist writing songs about peace and pain to the man who stepped away from the spotlight to raise his son, Sean—every chapter has brought him closer to something simpler and more essential.
“There’s this strange belief that your legacy is what matters,” he says. “But legacy is for other people. You don’t get to enjoy it. You don’t even really control it. What matters is how you loved, how you forgave, how you lived day to day. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that.”
He pauses, looking out the window at the soft hum of the city below. The same city where, decades ago, his life nearly ended in tragedy. But he survived. And in the years since, he’s found a new rhythm—one not bound by charts or cameras.
“I’ve had time others didn’t get,” Lennon says quietly. “Time to grow old, to see my children grow up, to hold Yoko’s hand into old age, to make music that didn’t have to top anything—just needed to be honest.”
In this late chapter, he’s returned to the piano often—not to write hits, but to reflect. Music has become more of a meditation than a message. “I still write,” he says. “Little things. Songs for no one in particular. Sometimes just a few lines. Sometimes just the sound of the keys is enough.”
He smiles, almost amused. “People used to ask me, ‘What’s the meaning of life?’ And I’d give some clever answer like ‘Love’ or ‘Peace.’ But now I think it’s just to experience—to take the ride with your eyes open. To feel everything. Even the hard bits.”
And death? “It’s not an end, really,” he says. “It’s the next note in the song, even if we don’t know the melody yet.”
Lennon doesn’t claim to have all the answers. But he’s not afraid anymore. He’s grateful. For the mistakes and the miracles. For the music and the silence. For the chaos of youth and the calm of age.
“When the time comes,” he says, “I’ll go without regret. I’ve said what I needed to say. I’ve loved who I needed to love. And I’ve lived—oh, I’ve lived.”
And with that, he laughs—softly, like a man who knows the last chapter has been just as beautiful as the first.
