I’m seventy-three years old, and I’m about to tell you something that might upset you. Everything you think you know about getting older is completely wrong. And the worst part? The people who should be telling you this—your parents, your teachers, society—they’re either lying to you or they don’t know themselves.

You see, I spent the first fifty years of my life believing the same lies you probably believe right now. I thought I had it all figured out. I had the career, the house, the respect of my peers. But at fifty-two, something happened that shattered everything I thought I knew. And what I discovered in the twenty-one years since then has completely changed how I see life, death, and everything in between.

But before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand something. The reason I’m making this isn’t to impress you or to make myself feel wise. I’m making this because I’m running out of time, and there are things you need to hear before it’s too late. Not for me—for you.

At fifty-two, I had what doctors call a “cardiac event.” That’s a fancy way of saying my heart tried to kill me. I was in a meeting, discussing quarterly projections, when suddenly the room started spinning. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of my arms and my wife crying in the corner.

The doctors said I was lucky. Lucky. I had just come face to face with my own mortality, and they called it luck. But you know what? They were right. Because lying in that hospital bed, with nothing to do but think, I realized something terrifying. I had been living my entire life on autopilot. I wasn’t really alive—I was just going through the motions, checking boxes, trying to meet everyone else’s expectations.

And here’s the part that haunts me to this day. If I had died that day, if my heart had stopped permanently, what would I have left behind? A nice house? A retirement account? A collection of achievements that nobody would remember in five years?

Let me tell you the biggest lie you’re probably telling yourself right now. “I have time.” “I’ll do that later.” “When I’m older, I’ll finally live the life I want.”

I see young people in their twenties, thirties, even forties, and they’re all saying the same thing. “When I make more money, then I’ll be happy.” “When I get that promotion, then I’ll relax.” “When the kids are grown, then I’ll travel.” “When I retire, then I’ll finally do what I love.”

Let me save you fifty years of regret with one simple truth: That day never comes. You know why? Because the goalposts keep moving. You get the promotion, and suddenly you need the next one. You make more money, and suddenly you need more money. You’re always chasing something just out of reach, and before you know it, you’re seventy years old wondering where your life went.

I did this. I spent thirty years climbing a ladder, only to realize when I got to the top that it was leaning against the wrong wall. And you can’t climb back down and start over. Time doesn’t work that way.

Here’s something nobody tells you when you’re young. Success is a terrible goal. And I say this as someone who achieved everything I set out to achieve. I made partner at my firm. I bought the house. I had the respect of my colleagues.

And you know what? None of it mattered.

You achieve your goal, and for about forty-eight hours, you feel amazing. Then the feeling fades. You’re back to baseline. Now you need a new goal, a bigger achievement, more validation. It’s a hamster wheel.

I had a friend who died three years ago at sixty-eight. Worked seventy-hour weeks his entire life. Built a multi-million dollar business. Never took a real vacation. Kept saying he’d slow down “next year.”

Next year came, and he had a stroke. At his funeral, his son said, “My father was a successful man, but I barely knew him.”

Is that the legacy you want?

Your regrets won’t be about the things you did wrong. They’ll be about the things you didn’t do at all.

I don’t lie awake at night thinking about failed business deals. Those don’t matter. You know what keeps me up? The trip to Japan I never took because I was “too busy.” The relationship with my brother that I let deteriorate. The book I always wanted to write but never started. The time I didn’t spend with my kids because I was working late.

These things eat at you. The missed opportunities. The roads not taken. The love you didn’t express. The risks you didn’t take because you were afraid.

The people you love—your parents, your siblings, your close friends—you think you have unlimited time with them. You don’t. And one day, that time will run out.

My father died when I was forty-five. We had a complicated relationship. And I was always too busy to really work on it. I kept thinking we’d have time to talk when I was less busy.

We never got that chance. Heart attack. Gone within hours. And you know my biggest regret? All the Sundays I didn’t call him. All the times I was “too tired” to drive over for dinner. All the little moments I let slip away.

There won’t always be more.

After my heart attack, I made big changes. Stepped back from work. Started saying no to things that didn’t matter. Started saying yes to things I had put off for decades.

In these last twenty-one years, I’ve learned more about life than I did in the previous fifty-two.

What matters is embarrassingly simple: time with people you love. Work that feels meaningful to YOU. Experiencing things—not owning things. Creating memories. Being present.

I know it sounds simple. When I was your age, I would have rolled my eyes. “Sure, but I have bills to pay.” And yes, you do. I’m not saying quit your job. I’m saying don’t sacrifice what matters for what doesn’t.

Here’s a question I want you to ask yourself, and I want you to answer it honestly. If you died tomorrow, would you be satisfied with the life you’ve lived so far?

Not “would people be impressed by your eulogy?” Not “did you achieve enough?” Just—would YOU be satisfied?

If the answer is no, then what are you waiting for? What are you doing with your time that’s so important that you’re willing to gamble your one precious life on it?

I’m seventy-three years old. I’ve been lucky enough to have good health since that heart attack. But every morning when I wake up, I’m aware that I’m on borrowed time. We all are, really. But most young people don’t realize this. They think they’re invincible. They think they have forever.

You don’t.

I have grandchildren. Three of them. And when I look at them, I see the same patterns I see in most young people today. They’re stressed, they’re anxious, they’re chasing things that won’t make them happy. They’re making the same mistakes I made.

And I try to tell them. I try to share what I’ve learned. But you know what? They don’t really listen. Not because they’re bad kids, but because they can’t. They’re living in the storm right now. They can’t see the patterns yet. They think their situation is unique, that the old rules don’t apply to them.

That’s why I’m speaking up now. Because maybe, just maybe, if enough people hear this message, someone will actually listen. Someone will make different choices. Someone will avoid the regrets that haunt people like me.

Every single day, you’re getting closer to death. Nobody likes to think about this. But you don’t have unlimited time. Neither do the people you love.

Your parents—if they’re still alive—they’re getting older every day. One day, probably sooner than you think, they won’t be here. Your friends, your spouse, your children—none of these relationships last forever.

So what are you going to do? Keep putting off that phone call? Keep postponing that trip? Keep telling yourself you’ll make time “later”?

Or are you going to wake up today and start living like your time is limited? Because it is.

If I could go back and talk to my thirty-year-old self, here’s what I would say:

Stop trying to impress people who don’t matter. Stop sacrificing your health for your career. Stop putting off joy until “someday.” Stop waiting for permission to live the life you want.

Start calling your parents more often. Start taking the trips you dream about. Start doing the things that scare you. Start saying no to obligations that drain you. Start saying yes to experiences that fulfill you.

And most importantly: start now. Not next year. Not after this project. Not when you have more money or more time or more whatever. Now.

Because I promise you, the “perfect time” will never come. Life will always be messy and complicated and full of reasons to wait. But if you wait, you’ll wake up one day and realize you waited your entire life away.

I’m seventy-three. If I’m lucky, maybe ten or fifteen more years. Maybe twenty if I’m blessed. Probably less. And I’m okay with that. Because these last twenty-one years have been the richest of my life.

Not because I made more money. Because I finally started living intentionally. Appreciating every day. Prioritizing what matters.

I’ve traveled to places I always wanted to see. I’ve deepened relationships with my children and grandchildren. I’ve pursued hobbies I put off for decades. I’ve forgiven people I held grudges against. I’ve said “I love you” countless times.

I’m happier now, at seventy-three, with less time ahead, than I was at thirty, when I thought I had all the time in the world.

That’s the irony. When you understand time is limited, you start to actually live. You stop wasting it. You stop postponing joy. You start creating the right time.

You have a choice, right now, today. Keep living the way you’re living, chasing success, putting off happiness, telling yourself you’ll make time “later.”

Or wake up. Realize time is running out faster than you think, and the life you’re waiting to live needs to start now.

I can’t make this choice for you. But I can tell you: you don’t want to be seventy-three, looking back, wishing you made different choices.

Don’t waste fifty-two years figuring this out. Learn from my mistakes. Live intentionally. Prioritize what matters. Stop waiting for “someday.”

Someday is today. It always has been.

If this resonates, share this story. Leave a comment. Tell someone what you’re going to do differently. Call your parents. Take that trip. Start that project. Chase the life you want instead of the life everyone else tells you to want.

The clock is ticking. What are you going to do with your time?

Because let me tell you something I learned the hard way: it’s not the promotions, the money, the accolades that matter in the end. It’s the people you love. It’s the moments you create. It’s the life you actually live.

Stop waiting. Stop putting it off. Stop thinking there’s time you can waste. There isn’t. Not for you, not for anyone you love.

This is your life. Right now. And it’s more precious than you realize.

Let me paint you a picture of what life really looks like when you stop pretending you have forever. Imagine a quiet Sunday morning in a small town in Maine—red brick sidewalks, the smell of fresh coffee from the corner café, a light drizzle falling from gray clouds. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of black coffee in my hand, sunlight spilling through the window onto the old oak floors. My grandchildren are running through the living room, laughing, chasing the dog, while my daughter Sarah sits nearby, scrolling through her phone.

I used to think mornings like this were ordinary. Now I know they’re sacred. Every laugh, every spilled cup of cocoa, every hug—they are the currency of life, more valuable than anything I chased in my career, more meaningful than any bonus, more permanent than any house or car.

I remember a trip to New England I took with my wife decades ago, before she passed. We rented a small cabin on the coast of Maine, the kind you see in postcards. We didn’t have a plan, didn’t map out every hour. We just walked along the cliffs, listening to the waves crash, tasting the salt in the air, feeling alive. And I thought, “This is life.” I forgot that lesson for decades, buried under spreadsheets, meetings, and ambitions.

After my heart attack, I relearned it. I started taking trips, small ones first—weekends in Boston, quick drives to the White Mountains. Then bigger ones: New York City to see a Broadway show, Washington D.C. to walk through the museums, Charleston, South Carolina, to taste shrimp and grits the way I’d always imagined. I made a rule: no trip could be postponed for work or bills. Life had already shown me what happens when you wait too long.

And it’s not just about travel. It’s about the people you see every day. My friendships had frayed over time because I was too busy or too stubborn. I called old friends, some I hadn’t spoken to in twenty years. At first, there was awkwardness, but slowly, the laughter came back. We reminisced, argued, and then laughed some more. I realized friendship, like life, needs attention, or it dies quietly.

I want to tell you about my grandchildren again—Charlotte, the three-year-old, full of curiosity and mischief. I read to her every Saturday now, sitting on the rug, her little hands tracing the pictures. Her older cousins join us, sitting cross-legged, listening with rapt attention. They don’t know it yet, but these moments will stay with them forever. And they stay with me, too. They remind me that the life I almost threw away chasing the wrong things is now richer than I ever imagined.

It’s funny how the American Dream is sold to us. The big house, the corner office, the perfect life that looks amazing on Instagram. But the truth? None of that matters when you’re on your deathbed. The only thing that matters is whether you loved, whether you were present, whether you lived fully.

I see people in Portland, in Boston, in Seattle, everywhere, and I see the same mistakes repeated—stress over promotions, anxiety over bills, endless comparisons to neighbors and friends. They’re climbing ladders leaning against the wrong walls, just like I did. And I want them to hear this now, not when it’s too late.

So here’s my challenge to you: stop waiting. Call your parents. Hug your children. Take that trip. Write that book. Learn that instrument. Tell the people you love that you love them. Make the moments that matter. Because no matter how much money you make or how many accolades you earn, none of that will comfort you when you realize time ran out before you truly lived.

I’m seventy-three, and I’m still learning every day. I wake up grateful for each sunrise. I go to bed thankful for each conversation, each laugh, each hug. Because I know that tomorrow is not guaranteed, and the life I’ve created—filled with love, with presence, with purpose—is the greatest wealth I could ever hope to have.

And now, here’s the reality I want you to grasp before you scroll past this: life doesn’t hand out second chances. You don’t get a redo for ignoring your heart, for letting fear dictate your choices, for putting off the moments that matter. Every day you wait, every opportunity you postpone, the clock ticks a little louder, reminding you that your time is not infinite.

I remember sitting on my porch last summer, watching the sun set over Portland Harbor. The sky was streaked with orange and pink, seagulls calling in the distance, the faint scent of salt and seaweed in the air. My grandchildren were playing in the yard, their laughter mingling with the gentle hum of passing cars and the clink of the ferry horn in the distance. I realized then, fully and completely, that I was living a life I had once thought impossible after all the losses, the fear, the regrets.

Robert and I, we still work together in the bookstore. It’s our little sanctuary, a place where books line every wall and every corner holds a memory. We’ve modernized it, sure, added an online presence, but the heart of it remains the same: a place where people come to find stories, escape, and connect. And through it all, I’ve learned that purpose is not something you chase outside yourself—it’s something you cultivate inside, in your relationships, your passions, and the moments you choose not to waste.

Every morning, when I unlock the front door and turn on the lights, I think of the man I was at fifty-two—the one who thought career and possessions were everything. And I smile, because I know that the woman I am today, at seventy-three, is richer than I could have ever imagined. Rich in love, in laughter, in memories, and in presence.

And here’s the truth I want you to carry with you: don’t wait. Don’t let “someday” rob you of today. Pick up the phone. Plan the trip. Tell the people you love that you love them. Take the class, write the book, paint the picture, start the hobby. You don’t need permission. You don’t need everything to be perfect. You just need to start.

Because the only guarantee in life is that one day it will end. And when it does, you want to be able to look back and say: I lived. I loved. I took the chances I was given. I made the time I had matter. Not “I wish I had,” not “maybe someday,” but “I did.”

I’m seventy-three. My days are numbered, but every one of them is precious. Every one of them is a gift. And if you take anything from what I’ve shared, let it be this: the life you want, the experiences that truly matter, the love that fills your soul—it starts today. Not tomorrow, not next year. Today.

So, I ask you again: what are you going to do with your time? Will you wait, or will you start living? Will you keep chasing a dream that isn’t really yours, or will you embrace the moments that are waiting for you right now? The choice is yours, and it always has been.

Because in the end, it’s not about the years you’ve counted, it’s about the moments you’ve made count. And those moments? They are everything.