Beautiful Things That Happen When You Remember Life Doesn't Last Forever
Photograph by the author.
I've caught myself more than once over the past couple of years lingering on thoughts of my own mortality. It tends to show up around the anniversary of my dad's death in August. But it's also in the mix of health scares--my own, friends', family members'--and the quiet accumulation of loss that seems to mark this stage of life.
There were moments when the weight of it hit hard. Once, I felt it so strongly that I couldn't shake it for days. It was unsettling, honestly. That fog eventually lifted, but the awareness didn't go away.
What changed was how I decided to hold it.
Instead of focusing on losing life, I started thinking more about living it. Fully, intentionally, and in ways that align with what matters most to me. Here are five things that shifted when I began letting the reality of mortality inform--not overshadow--how I show up in my own life.
I stopped sweating the small stuff
Yes, it's a cliché. But aren't those clichés often rooted in some deeper truth?
The more I recognized how finite time really is, the easier it became to let go of perfectionism, minor irritations, and the mental clutter of overthinking. I started asking, "Will this still matter in five years?" And most of the time, the answer was no.
One area this showed up in a big way was my health. I've been more focused lately on managing stress--just as much as nutrition or movement. Even though I wouldn't describe my life as high-stress, the data told another story. My biometrics were showing signs of tension I wasn't consciously feeling--poor sleep, high resting heart rates at odd times.
It pushed me to look closer.
I've written about hidden stress before. Even when I think I'm managing just fine, my body sometimes tells a different story. And paying too much attention to inconsequential "small stuff" can add up--little micro-doses of stress that wear you down over time.
So I've started letting more go. I pick my battles at work instead of chasing every hill. I leave the laundry for another day. I've realized that creating pressure to "stay on top of everything" is rarely worth the tradeoff.
Letting go of the small stuff starts with noticing it. What's on your list?
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I became more intentional with my time
This is a topic I've talked about before, but it's worth repeating. It's probably the single biggest shift I've made in recent years.
When you start taking time seriously--not in an anxious way, but in a meaningful way--you get clearer on who and what you're saying yes to. I've built stronger relationships, found more space in my days, and let go of the guilt that used to come with overcommitting and under-delivering.
If you only adopt one of these practices, let it be this one.
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Gratitude became second nature
When you start noticing how fragile life is, you also start noticing everything else.
I've become a quiet collector of small joys: good coffee, warm socks, a soft breeze, sunlight in the trees, a text from someone I love. I've turned these ordinary moments into tiny rituals of appreciation.
Just like I've written about savoring "small joys," this shift didn't just happen in my head--it started to show up in what I do. I've started taking more photos, not of grand landscapes, but of those fleeting cozy moments: light through a window, a steaming mug, a funny cloud, a cactus looking oddly regal.
It's not about being productive. It's just a small act of attention--and it brings me joy.
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I feel freer to be myself
There's something liberating about knowing your time is precious. It gives you permission to stop worrying so much about what others think.
I don't mean swinging to the extreme or ignoring others completely--but I've let go of a lot of small social expectations I used to carry. I've stopped spending energy trying to be more palatable or polished than I really am.
Life's too short to play a role that doesn't fit anymore. I'm more myself now--and I've noticed that people seem to respond to that honesty with more ease and warmth.
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I got braver about what really matters
It's one thing to say "life is short." It's another to feel it in your bones when someone you love dies suddenly, or you get a wake-up call from your own body, or watch a friend face a health challenge they never saw coming.
I wake up now with a quiet sense of awe that I got another day. It's easy to take that for granted, but these thoughts--uninvited though they may be--have shifted how I move through time.
They've made me more likely to say "I love you," to book the trip, to write the thing, to start now instead of waiting.
What’s next?
I'm learning that thinking about death doesn't have to be morbid. In fact, it might be the most life-affirming thing we do.
So I'll ask you what I ask myself, gently and often:
How do you want to live, knowing you don't have forever?
