What We Control—and What We Don’t

If life has taught me anything, it’s this: you don’t get much say in the setup.

You’re born into a world that never asked your permission. You inherit family dynamics, flawed institutions, bad weather, and a list of neuroses longer than your arm. Sometimes you’re lucky, sometimes you’re not.

We don’t get to choose how we come into this world, or half of what hits us along the way.

But we do get to choose how we carry it.
And more than that, we get to choose how we leave.

Mortality: The Ultimate Editor

There’s something about realizing you won’t live forever that sharpens things. Suddenly the nonsense falls away. You stop caring so much about petty status games and start asking better questions:

• Did I help anyone?
  
• Did I speak the truth, even when it cost me?
  
• Did I make something that outlives me—art, kindness, change?
  

Knowing the clock is ticking doesn’t make me scared. It makes me clear.

I’ve spent enough time around death to know this: most people don’t regret what they failed to control. They regret what they failed to love, say, or finish.

Gallows Humor and Grace

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been a fan of gallows humor. It’s how you survive this absurd little dance we call life.

The joke is, no one gets out alive. But the better joke is, most of us keep acting like we will.

We avoid conversations about death like it’s contagious. We chase legacy like it can be stored in a safety deposit box. We pad ourselves with distractions and call it purpose.

But here’s the wild thing: when you finally stop running from the end, you start living more honestly.

The Exit Is Yours to Write

“You don’t choose how to live” may sound bleak. But it’s also deeply liberating.

You don’t have to justify your past. You don’t have to untangle every knot or fix every flaw.

What you can do is choose how you face the last chapter. How you hold people’s hands. How you apologize, thank, and forgive. How you make someone else’s load a little lighter on your way out.

That choice is always yours,  even when nothing else is.

Legacy Isn’t What You Leave—It’s What You Share

People talk about legacy like it’s a plaque on a wall. But legacy isn’t something you leave behind—it’s something you pass on, while you’re still here.

I’ve learned that your real legacy is in how you show up for people. How you listen. How you push them to think. How you tell the truth when it would be easier not to.

I’ve seen festivals that changed the culture. I’ve seen friends write things that outlived them. But I’ve also seen someone pour coffee with so much care it made you feel seen. That’s legacy, too.

It’s not always loud, but it’s always felt.

We All Get a Curtain Call

The strange gift of growing older is that you start to see the curtain call coming.

You don’t know exactly when, and you don’t know how, but you know it’s there.

Some people pretend it’s not.
Others bargain with it.
Me? I try to welcome it.

Not because I want to go, but because I want to be ready when it’s time.

I want to meet that moment with the same honesty, humor, and stubborn joy that carried me through the rest of it. I want to look back without flinching.

And I want to say: “That was one hell of a run.”

Choose Your Ending While You’re Still in It

This isn’t just about death. It’s about how we live because of death.

If we stopped obsessing over how to live and started thinking more about how we want to end with courage, kindness, creativity, we might live differently in the middle, too.

So no, I don’t believe you get to control the whole arc of your life. But I believe you can shape the part that matters most:

• How you treat people.
  
• What you give your energy to.
  
• What you leave in others.
  

We don’t choose the terms of the beginning.
But we can choose the tone of the goodbye.

So I’ll keep working, keep laughing, keep telling the truth. Not because I’m chasing some grand reward—but because this is the only thing that ever made sense to do with the time I’ve been given.

And when the final act comes, I hope to walk offstage with no regrets, just a few bruises, a grateful heart, and maybe one last punchline.