Euthanasia, the deliberate act of ending a life to alleviate suffering, remains one of the most contentious moral issues of our time. The debate is often clouded by emotion, societal norms, and the innate human fear of death. Yet, the core of the issue is frequently misunderstood, with much of the conversation revolving around those who are left behind rather than those who are enduring unimaginable pain.

In the movie Me Before You, euthanasia is portrayed not as a tragic defeat, but as a complex, deeply personal choice. The character’s decision to end his life is met with resistance and sorrow by those who love him, yet it’s ultimately portrayed as an act of autonomy and relief from suffering. This depiction resonates with the reality that many facing terminal illnesses or unbearable pain consider euthanasia not out of a desire to die, but because continuing to live has become an unbearable burden.

David Foster Wallace, in a profound reflection on the nature of suffering, once wrote “The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window, just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.” This quote captures the essence of what drives people to consider euthanasia—it’s not about wanting to die; it’s about finding an escape from a life that has become nothing but torment.

Opponents of euthanasia often argue from a position of fear or moral absolutism, asserting that life must be preserved at all costs. They speak of hope, of miracles, of the sanctity of life. But these arguments often ring hollow to someone whose every waking moment is consumed by excruciating pain or profound despair. The notion that life must be prolonged regardless of the quality of that life is, in many ways, a selfish one—rooted more in the discomfort of those who must say goodbye than in the reality faced by the person suffering.

Euthanasia is not about giving up; it’s about acknowledging the limits of medicine, the limits of endurance, and the right of an individual to choose how and when they exit this world. To deny someone this choice is to impose an external judgment on their pain, one that is often detached from the actual experience of that pain. It’s easy to speak of hope and perseverance from a place of comfort, but such platitudes can become cruel and hollow when directed at someone whose life has become a never-ending nightmare.

To keep someone alive against their will, forcing them to endure endless suffering for the sake of preserving life, is a form of moral blindness. It is a refusal to acknowledge the full spectrum of human experience, including the reality that, sometimes, life becomes a prison from which there is no escape other than death. Euthanasia is not a denial of life’s value; it is an affirmation of the individual’s right to define what that value means in the face of unbearable suffering.

At its heart, euthanasia is a profoundly compassionate choice, recognising that death is not always the enemy. For some, the relentless march of time brings only more pain, more loss, and more despair. To insist that such a person must continue to live is not just insensitive—it is, in a very real sense, an act of cruelty. It’s forcing someone to stay in a world where every moment is filled with suffering, where hope has long since faded, and where the future holds nothing but more of the same.

Alan Rusbridger recently penned a poignant article discussing his personal struggle with assisted dying, particularly in relation to his father’s old age. His reflections come at a time when the topic is gaining increased political attention in the UK. Labour politician Kim Leadbeater is set to introduce a bill that would grant terminally ill individuals in England and Wales the option to seek assistance from physicians to end their lives. Current Prime Minister Keir Starmer, who supported a 2015 assisted dying bill, has stated that “there are grounds for changing the law,” signaling a potential shift in UK policy on this deeply personal and controversial issue.

In the end, the debate over euthanasia is not about life versus death. It’s about the right to choose a dignified end when life has become unbearable. It’s about recognizing that the person enduring the suffering is the one who should have the final say. Euthanasia challenges us to confront our deepest fears and prejudices, asking us to prioritise empathy over dogma, compassion over judgment. Because in the end, sometimes the greatest act of love is to let go, to allow someone to escape the flames of their own personal hell, and to find peace in the only way left to them.