Memento Mori: Why I Live Like Time Is Running Out

Some people wake up and forget they’re alive.

Others are reminded of it every single day.

I’m the second kind. Not by choice, but by loss.

My mom died when she was 46. She spent most of her life battling addiction. Not the kind that ruins a weekend—the kind that slowly erodes who someone is over decades.

I still remember her as warm. Strong. Beautiful. The kind of mom who showed up for you, even when she couldn’t show up for herself.

One day, she didn’t show up at all.

Then there was my older brother. He died at 26. A hit-and-run.

One minute he was living. Driving. Thinking about what he was going to do tomorrow. Then, nothing.

Two people I loved. Gone. No warning. Just… absence.

Those moments became my anchor. My call to presence. A brutal reminder that we all share the same fate:

You will die. So will I. So will everyone we love.

Memento Mori. "Remember you must die."

Sounds dark. Morbid. Even depressing.

But it’s not.

It provides the fire I need everyday to push myself to be better and to live in the moment.

Because when you’ve held grief in your hands, you stop pretending time is infinite. You realize how absurd it is to waste a day being bitter. Or scrolling endlessly. Or putting off the conversation. Or skipping the workout. Or ignoring your kids because you're “busy.”

Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. That’s not motivational fluff. It’s biology.

And that realization? It changed how I parent. How I lead. How I build. It’s the lens I see life through now.

These days, I don’t need a dopamine hit to feel alive. I just need to hear my sons laugh. I need to feel my feet hit the ground during a workout. I need a quiet moment with my wife where we talk like it’s our first date.

That’s the real wealth. That’s the point.

Memento Mori isn’t about fearing death. It’s about respecting life. It’s about asking yourself every day:

Did I show up with love?

Did I leave it all on the field?

If this were my last day… would I be proud of how I lived it? Don’t wait for a tragedy to remind you what matters. Don’t wait to become a statistic before you start becoming who you were meant to be.

Start now. Call your dad. Apologize to your wife. Tell your kids you’re proud of them. Train your body. Create the thing. Say “I love you.” Say “I’m sorry.” Say nothing—and just sit in the moment.

You’re here. Alive. Breathing.

And that means you still have time.