On May 1st, I lost a key anchor in my life.
Almost 30 years of friendship.
She wasn’t just a friend — she was a mirror, a compass, a teacher.

She introduced me to meditation before it was cool.
To gratitude before it was gamified.
To kindness as a quiet form of strength.
She showed me how to notice my mind, how to question it,
how to sit with discomfort — and with wonder.

She opened the door to my own creative chaos,
helped me see it not as noise,
but as signal.
She reminded me that my light wasn’t something I had to earn.
It was already there — just hidden beneath the “shoulds.”

She was a Tibetan Buddhist,
and she didn’t just talk about death —
she lived with it.
Not in fear, but in fluency.
The art of living and the art of dying were, for her, one practice.
She wrote about it, she worked with it.

She was also the one who gave me the phrase
“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”
go from something I’d heard
to something I understood.

And now she’s gone.

Her absence is loud.
But so is her final teaching:
Be here.
Love the people who are still here.

Then comes summer.
The family visits.
The return to your roots —
and all the weird vines that come with it.

Laughter, yes.
But also friction.
Petty battles disguised as important truths.
Old wounds rehearsed like a family script.
Arguments where no one wins,
because no one’s willing to lose a little pride.

Everyone digs in.
No one backs down.
And what gets buried in the process?
Time. Presence. The very thing we came back for.

We keep acting like we’ll have another summer.
Another dinner. Another “next time.”
But what if this is the time?
The only one.

They say live like you’re dying.
But let’s be honest:
we are.
And that’s not a buzzkill — that’s the truth that makes everything real.
It’s not about panic.
It’s about permission.

Permission to pause the performance.
To listen.
To laugh before the joke is perfect.
To forgive — even if just 10% — before it’s too late.

This isn’t a call to make peace with everyone.
This is a call to not miss it while it’s still happening.
Every ego war is a moment lost.
Every unspoken softness is a day we don’t get back.

So maybe this summer, we try something different.
Not because we have to.
But because we still can.