The truth about time that most people should avoid

“The biggest adventure you can take is living the life of your dreams.” ~Oprah Winfrey

My father died at the age of forty-nine.

I was young when it happened, still soft, as grief does when you’re not ready to hold it. I was so consumed by the loss itself that I never stopped doing math. Forty-nine years. That’s all he got. Forty-nine years to do everything he wanted to do, to become what he wanted to be, and to say every word that was left in him.

I didn’t let go. Then no. I wasn’t ready for what it meant. But life has a way of preparing you whether you choose it or not.

A few years later, someone I loved was diagnosed with cancer. Late stage. The kind of diagnosis that not only changes the person who receives it. It changes everyone sitting in the waiting room, everyone goes home in silence after it, and everyone lies awake at 2 a.m. doing the same horrible count.

Suddenly, the pettiness of everyday life becomes unbearable. You suddenly see with terrible clarity how much time you spend doing things that don’t matter.

Then last year my grandmother died. He was old. He lived. And yet, in a moment, he’s simply gone. No warning. No gradual fade to prepare for. Just the sudden, permanent fact of his absence.

Three losses. Three reminders. And yet, the loudest wake-up call came quietly from within.

I turned forty.

There are forty somethings that no one fully prepares for. It does not arrive with fanfare or crisis. It comes as a question, low and steady, that you can’t hear once it starts: What am I waiting for?

Because forty is not old. But he is no longer young enough to believe that time is infinite.

I look around at the people I’ve loved and lost and realize that many of them never made it to sixty. My father was forty-nine. And here I sit, healthy, talented, full of ideas and dreams and things that I file for later, think about later. It’s like a place I have a guaranteed ticket to.

It isn’t.

We learned to survive, but no one taught us to live

I was taught to wait. To get pleasure. To be responsible first, to live second. And so we do. We scroll, we plan, we procrastinate, and we tell ourselves that we will do it when things fall into place, when we feel ready, and when the timing is right.

But life doesn’t slow down because of your preparation. And death does not control the calendar.

I know this because I waited almost too long to share my writing publicly. I had the idea. I had the message. I had several years of experience, which I knew deep down could count as something else. But I was scared. I’m afraid of what people will say. I fear criticism, judgment, and the vulnerability of bringing my private stories out into the world and not knowing how they will land.

And then I thought of my father. Forty-nine years. And I asked myself, if not now, when? If not this, then what?

So I started. I was scared, imperfect and uncertain, but I started. And that leap, that single decision to stop waiting for the fear to pass, changed everything. Fear doesn’t go away. Just decide that a life led by fear is not a life lived.

The life list and how it really works

This is not about grand gestures or dramatic reinvention. It’s about something much quieter and much more powerful: a consistently practiced intentional life. This is how I do it:

1. The reflective audit

Every month I sit down and honestly ask myself: How was this month of my life? Did I read the book I always wanted to read? Did I take the walks I promised myself? Did I rest without guilt? Did I spend real, unhurried time with the people I love? This is not to judge myself, but to see clearly where I have shown up for my own life and where I have quietly left it.

2. The Who Check-in

I ask myself who I haven’t spoken to in a while. Who do I miss? Who deserves more than a liked post? Who deserves a phone call, a real conversation, and a moment of real connection? Relationships are also part of the life list. The people who matter aren’t on the one-off list. They are on the list now.

3. The small brave thing

This is what changes everything. I choose at least one thing per season that scares me enough to mean it matters. Not a dramatic jump. Sometimes it’s me signing up for a class, sometimes it’s speaking to someone after years of silence, and sometimes it’s just saying yes when every cautious part of me wants to say not yet. It’s not the size of the thing that matters. The fact that we choose it over fear is what matters.

4. Control of loving accountability

I’ll be honest: it’s not always easy. In some seasons, you fall back into the trap of next week or next month when things settle down. When this happens, I bring myself back with a simple question that I ask with compassion, not criticism:

If this was my last chance to do this, would I still wait? This gentle urgency cuts through almost everything. It’s not about scaring yourself into action. It’s about loving yourself enough to stop procrastinating your own life.

When your time comes, what will you look back on?

I think about my father often. Forty-nine years, a life sentence. And I ask myself the question I should have before: When my time comes, what will I look back on?

Can I say that I lived life to the fullest, loved without holding back, and took the risks that called to me? Or will I sit with a list of places I’ve never been, words I’ve never said, and dreams I’ve kept small and safe because I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment?

The perfect moment doesn’t come. But this moment is here.

You are not eternal. Not on this earth, not in this body, and not in this particular window of life that is now open. And neither do I. This is not a morbid thought. This is the clearest I know.

So I ask you honestly, as someone who has suffered enough losses to be serious: What’s on your bucket list? Not when things are settling down. Not when you’re less afraid. You will not borrow at some point in the future.

Right now. This breath. This is the heartbeat. Don’t wait. Start living. Do it fearfully, do it imperfectly, and in the smallest possible way, if that’s all you have today, but do it. Because this moment is the only one in which it is guaranteed. And the people you lost, who left before they were ready and before you were ready, wouldn’t tell you to wait.

So don’t.

Because here’s what I know to be true after every loss, after every birthday that reminds me of time, time doesn’t stand still, after every moment I chose to show up for my own life instead of procrastinating: the regret of inaction is harder than the discomfort of trying.

The things you didn’t do stay with you much longer than the things that didn’t go as planned. And the life you chose to live fully, imperfectly, courageously, and on your own terms is worth looking back on.

You don’t need a dramatic turning point to get started. You don’t have to figure it all out. You just need to quietly and firmly decide that your life deserves to be lived now. In theory, no. Not once. Right now.

What is the one thing on your bucket list that you can do this week?

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