In Neil Gaiman's Sandman series, there's a poignant moment in the Brief Lives arc involving Bernie Capax, a man who lived over 10,000 years. When Bernie finally dies in a freak accident, he asks Death if he "did alright," considering the millennia he experienced. Death responds, "You got what everybody gets, Bernie—a lifetime."
That line has been replaying in my mind today. Earlier, I learned through Facebook that a friend—passed away from cancer at just thirty-six. He leaves behind a wife and a six-year-old son.
It’s sobering: we all get a lifetime, yet we often act as though it stretches endlessly. I thought that way about my dad. He was my rock, always a phone call away with advice or a helping hand. Six years ago, just before Thanksgiving, he suffered a stroke and was diagnosed with glioblastoma, an aggressive brain tumor. I flew home to spend the holidays with him, watching him fade day by day until he passed away that January.
Not long before my dad’s diagnosis, a friend of mine from San Diego died in a car accident while driving through Texas. He collided head-on with another vehicle during a lane change, was thrown from the car, and passed away. He was just days away from reuniting with his new wife in their first home together.
Then there was another friend from my military days—healthy, full of life, and only in his early fifties. The day after Thanksgiving, he felt unwell and checked into a hospital. By the weekend, he was gone.
These stories aren’t meant to be a downer. They’re reminders. As David Goggins says, "You have to callus your mind." Life doesn’t care about what “should have” been—it just is. And these losses have pushed me to treasure the time I have.
I make an effort to slow down, to wrestle in the living room with my kids, to swing with them in the front yard, to say yes to their projects even when I'm busy. Because life can change in an instant. One moment you’re carefree, and the next, your entire world shifts.
It’s so easy to get lost in routines, hyper-focused on work, or stuck in the tunnel vision of daily problems. And when that happens, we forget to appreciate what—and who—is right in front of us. We grow complacent. We stop noticing the beauty of our everyday lives.
Yes, it’s a cliché to say “seize the day” or “stop and smell the roses.” But there’s power in living with the awareness of Memento Mori—remembering that life is fleeting. That understanding isn’t just a way to handle grief; it’s a tool for living fully. It helps me stay grounded, focused, and resilient.
Because just as quickly as life can shift into heartbreak, it can just as easily shift toward joy. Pain doesn’t last forever. Time doesn’t heal every wound, but it can bring perspective. And that perspective has taught me to reassess how I spend my time and prioritize what truly matters.
I make it a point to call or message people who’ve impacted me, just to let them know I care. It never feels like enough. No number of conversations with my dad would ever have felt like enough. But knowing that makes me all the more committed to living my life with intention.
You only get a lifetime. Make it count.
Photo by Helena Lopes on Unsplash