Everything Ends. That’s Why It Matters.

I've been thinking a lot lately about all the things we don't get to keep.

Not in a sad or depressing way. More in a reflective, almost grateful way.

The older I get, the more I realize that some of the most beautiful things in life were never meant to last. They were meant to be experienced, cherished, learned from, and eventually let go of. And if I'm being honest, that's a lesson I've spent most of my life resisting.

Life has a funny way of teaching you to protect your heart. I've become more cautious over the years about where I invest my time, my energy, and myself. I've learned that not every opportunity is worth chasing, not every relationship is meant to last, and not every open door needs to be walked through.

But when I do decide something matters—when I decide a person, an experience, or a dream is worth the risk—I'm all in. I care deeply. I get attached. I invest everything I've got. And maybe that's why endings still hit me so hard.

The truth is, life is full of things we don't get to keep. Students graduate. Children grow up. Jobs end. Relationships change. Friendships end. Seasons pass. Entire chapters of our lives quietly become the stories we tell. Most of life's endings don't announce themselves. We only recognize them when we look back.

Nobody tells you that one day you'll pick up your child for the last time and you won't know it's the last time. There won't be an announcement, a calendar reminder, or some dramatic moment where a narrator steps in and says, "Pay attention. This is it."

Instead, it happens on some random Tuesday.

The last bedtime story followed by “hugs, kisses, and secrets.”

The last family vacation where everyone is under the same roof.

The last time they reach for your hand before crossing a parking lot.

The last time they ask you to tie their shoes.

The moment passes unnoticed until years later when you suddenly realize it already happened.

Maybe that's why Facebook memories have been hitting me so hard lately.

It's the anniversary season of my mom's death, and every night before bed I'll inevitably find myself scrolling through old memories. A hospital update. A prayer request. A photograph. A post written by a version of me who was trying desperately to make sense of something that didn't make any sense at all.

And every time it happens, I do the same thing.

I read.

I remember.

And then I cry.

Let's be honest: grief is a fickle little bitch.

You're walking along, minding your own business, happy as a pig in shit, and then WHAM! A smell. A song. A photograph. A Facebook memory. Some random thing one of your five senses decides to drag up from the depths of your brain, and suddenly you're trying to figure out how to process all of it while simultaneously pretending to be a functional adult.

One minute you're fine.

The next minute you're standing in the cereal aisle fighting for your life because a song came on that reminds you of your mom.

The older I get, the more I think grief is less about loss and more about love. It's all the love you still have for someone who is no longer here to receive it. When the tears come, I try to remind myself that they're not evidence that I'm broken. They're simply the physical manifestation of all the love I still have to give that has nowhere to go but out.

As strange as it sounds, I'm incredibly grateful that I documented that season of my life so thoroughly. Those posts have become a time capsule—a record of conversations, fears, prayers, heartbreak, and sacred moments that I might have otherwise forgotten.

Reading them now feels a little like watching a movie I've already seen.

The version of me writing those posts had no idea what was coming next.

But I do.

I know that my siblings would eventually gather from different parts of the country to say goodbye. I know there would be difficult conversations, sacred conversations, and a thousand little moments that would become precious to me later. I know there would be tears and laughter and stories shared around hospital beds and living room couches.

I know that one morning my sister Julie and I would be sitting beside Mom, holding her hands as she quietly slipped from this life into the next.

Even now, writing those words feels surreal.

It was one of the most painful experiences of my life.

It was also one of the most sacred.

And that's what I've found myself reflecting on as I've revisited these memories.

As hard as that season was, I wouldn't trade it. Not because losing my mom wasn't devastating. It was. Not because watching someone you love decline is easy. It isn't.

But because I got time.

I got conversations.

I got opportunities to tell her I loved her.

I got moments sitting beside her bed.

I got chances to thank her for the things she gave me.

I got to say goodbye.

The older I get, the more I realize what an incredible gift that was.

Because my mom never got that opportunity.

When I think about the night my dad and grandparents were killed, I don't just feel sad for her. I feel a combination of horror and mad respect that is difficult to put into words.

An officer walked into her workplace and delivered the worst news imaginable: there had been an accident. There were no survivors.

In a single moment, she lost her husband and both of her parents.

Just like that.

Gone.

I try to imagine what that must have felt like and my brain simply cannot.

Your spouse is killed in a horrific accident. That's already more pain than most people can comprehend. Who do you call? Who do you lean on? Who helps you carry something that heavy?

Your parents.

Except in this case, they were in the car too.

They were gone too.

All three of them.

And then, somehow, you're expected to keep going.

To get out of bed the next morning.

To feed four children.

To pay the bills.

To navigate birthdays and holidays and school concerts and scraped knees and broken hearts. And hard questions.

To keep living. To keep going. To push through harsh criticism and judgment from outsiders. And do it all. Alone.

I honestly don't know how she did it.

I don't think I could.

And the older I get, the more respect I have for the answer she somehow found: one day at a time.

The older I get, the more I find myself thinking less about what my mom lost and more about what she carried.

When you're a kid, your mom is just your mom. For those of you fortunate enough to have both of your parents, you're even luckier. Your parents are the people who make dinner, drive the car, pay the bills, and somehow always seem to know what to do. They're superheroes.

At least that's how they seem.

But then you get older.

You get married. You raise kids. You experience heartbreak. You navigate relationships. You lose people. You get knocked flat by life a few times. And suddenly you realize something that never occurred to you when you were younger.

Your parents weren't superheroes.

They were people.

People carrying burdens you couldn't possibly understand at the time. People trying to figure it out as they went. People making mistakes, second-guessing themselves, worrying about their kids, wondering if they were doing enough, and somehow finding the strength to get up and do it all again the next day.

And maybe that's part of what happens as we get older. We stop seeing our parents only through the eyes of a child and start seeing them through the eyes of an adult. Through the eyes of a spouse. Through the eyes of someone trying to raise children, pay bills, navigate relationships, carry disappointments, and somehow hold it all together.

The older I get, the less impressed I am by perfection and the more amazed I am by perseverance.

The older I get, the more I look at my mom's life and think, "Good Lord... how did you do it?!"

And maybe that's part of why I've been thinking so much about endings lately.

Watching my kids grow up, revisiting old memories, reflecting on my mom's life—it all seems to point me back to the same realization: the things that matter most are often the very things we can't hold onto forever.

As I've sat with these memories, I've realized something else.

One of the reasons I've always loved theatre is because theatre never pretends things will last forever. It isn't something that's usually said out loud, but it's understood and accepted by everyone involved.

From the moment auditions are posted, closing night is already on the calendar. The final bow is built into the very first rehearsal. We just don't think about it.

Instead, we focus on learning the lines, building the set, creating the costumes, solving problems, laughing with castmates, and somehow turning words on a page into something alive.

Hundreds of hours are spent creating something beautiful that everyone involved knows will eventually disappear. And somehow that knowledge doesn't make the experience less meaningful.

It makes it more meaningful.

I think that's part of why theatre people tend to be so aware of the moments they're given. We know every rehearsal, every performance, every cast and crew, every standing ovation is temporary. Because of that, there's a mindfulness to it. An appreciation. A recognition that what we're experiencing is special precisely because it won't last forever.

I certainly didn't know at the time that Cash On Delivery would be the last show I ever performed in. If someone had told me that then, I probably wouldn't have believed them.

But what an incredible experience to go out with.

I'm grateful for every rehearsal, every laugh backstage, every performance, every memory. Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it.

Maybe the reason theatre works is because nobody spends the entire rehearsal process mourning closing night.

We show up for the middle.

The middle is where the friendships happen. The middle is where the growth happens. The middle is where the memories are made. The middle is where the magic lives.

And maybe that's true of life, too.

Maybe that's why all of this has been hitting me so hard lately.

Max will leave in January.

And let's be honest, January is basically tomorrow.

Maggie walked through the airport on March 25th and, whether I realized it in that moment or not, everything changed. Not in a bad way. Just in a permanent way. The season shifted. The version of our family that existed for eighteen years quietly came to an end, and a new chapter began.

And for the first time in my life, I feel acutely aware of how quickly it all goes.

The birthdays. The vacations. The late-night conversations. The rides home from school. The rides to volleyball. The ordinary moments that don't feel important until they're gone.

I find myself wanting to slow everything down and soak it all in. Not because I'm afraid of what's next. But because I've finally learned the value of what's right now.

If I'm being completely honest, part of that awareness comes from regret.

There were years when I wasn't fully present. Years when depression, anxiety, medication, and simply trying to make it through the day left me existing in a fog. I showed up. I loved my kids. I did the best I could.

But there are moments I wish I could go back and experience again with the clarity and gratitude I have now.

I can't.

None of us can.

But maybe that's another gift hidden inside getting older.

Perspective.

The ability to recognize what matters before it's gone. The ability to stop rushing through today because we're worried about tomorrow. The ability to fully embrace the middle before it becomes a memory.

I can't go back and change any of it. I can't relive birthdays I rushed through. I can't reclaim conversations I wasn't fully present for. And honestly, I've spent enough time beating myself up over those things.

Regret may be a useful teacher, but it's a terrible place to live.

What I can do is pay attention now.

I can linger a little longer in the kitchen when one of my kids starts talking. I can say yes to the conversation. I can stay present for the ride home from school. I can appreciate the random Tuesday night when everybody happens to be home. I can stop treating ordinary moments like they're ordinary.

Because one day I'll realize they weren't.

Long story longer, nobody makes it out of this life alive.

Every show closes. Every child grows up. Every season changes. Every chapter eventually comes to an end.

And strangely, I don't find that depressing anymore.

I find it motivating.

Because if that's true, then today matters. This conversation matters. This season matters. The ride home from school matters. The family dinner matters. The late-night phone call matters. The random Tuesday matters. The ordinary moments we rush past matter.

The ending isn't the enemy.

The ending is what makes today matter.

Maybe that's what I've been learning as I've revisited these memories.

The goal was never to keep everything forever. The goal was never to stop my children from growing up. The goal was never to avoid loss. The goal was never to somehow hold on so tightly that life couldn't change.

The goal was to be present.

To love deeply.

To pay attention.

To show up fully for the season I was given.

To recognize the gift while I still have it.

Because one day every season becomes a memory.

And if I'm lucky, I want to look back with gratitude more than regret.

So call your mom. Or your dad. Or your sister. Or your friend. Go to the game. Take the picture. Stay a little longer. Put down your phone. Pay attention.

Because life is happening right now.

Not someday.

Not when things settle down.

Not when you finally get caught up.

Right now.

And if there's one thing these past few years have taught me, it's that the people, experiences, and seasons we love most were never meant to stay forever.

They were meant to be cherished.

What an incredible gift that is.

What an incredible life this is.

And what a privilege it is to be here for the middle.