Death is strange.

She hides nothing, yet we spend our lives pretending we cannot see her.

From the moment we take our first breath, she whispers the same promise:

One day. Never a date. Never an hour. Only...One day.

And somehow, that feels far enough away for us to waste entire seasons.

We call her unexpected. She quietly wonders why. “I’ve been here all along,” she might say.

We fold tomorrow over today as though time had no end. We postpone joy. Forgiveness.

We postpone the life we long for.

As though life itself were patiently waiting for us to finish everything else before beginning.

I imagine death at our door for a visit. Not as a thief.

As a guest who has been expected since the day we were born. She stands at the doorway.

Not tapping her foot. Not growing impatient. Simply waiting.

As though she has all the time in the world... And we are the only ones who believe we do.

While we suddenly begin cleaning. We wash dishes that have been sitting in the sink for years.

We dust forgotten corners. We desperately try to get our home ready for her, like if it was a unexpected guest.

We reach for dreams still wrapped in their original paper.

But a lifetime cannot be folded into an afternoon. The house was never meant to be cleaned at the end. Only lived in.

Perhaps death has never been the tragedy. Perhaps inattention is.

Inattention quietly steals ordinary Tuesdays. Slow breakfasts. Lingering embraces.

Sunsets we never looked up to see. The sound of birds before the world wakes.

A conversation we meant to have. A hand we postponed to hold. Death asks for a single day.

Inattention quietly steals thousands.

The cherry blossoms do not mourn because they cannot bloom forever.

The tide never apologizes for returning to the sea. Even the sun knows how to leave with dignity.

Only we keep bargaining with time, asking for one more season while lacking deep presence in the one unfolding in our hands.

We spend so much time arranging our lives that we forget to inhabit them.

Life never waits backstage for us to feel ready. By the time we stop rehearsing, the curtain has already risen.

We didn’t choose to be born. We won’t choose the moment we die.

Perhaps the only choice we were ever given was whether we would truly live in between.

The curtain has already risen.

I worked for it, shaped my life around it, believed in it completely. And eventually… I reached it.

But something didn’t feel right.

It looked like success from the outside. It made sense on paper.

It was everything I had once told myself I wanted.

And yet, I wasn’t happy. There was a quiet emptiness I couldn’t explain. A feeling that I had arrived somewhere that didn’t feel like home.

That’s when I began to understand something I had never questioned before:

Maybe what I had been chasing… was never truly mine.

I had followed a definition of success that was handed to me. One that looked impressive, productive, and secure.

But it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t intentional. And it didn’t take into account how I actually wanted to feel.

I never stopped to ask myself:

What does success feel like? Not look like. Not sound like. Not what others would admire.

But what would make me feel at peace? For a long time, I thought success meant more.

More achievement. More recognition. More doing.

Now I see it differently after not being in corporate America for a year.

Success, to me, is quieter.

It’s waking up slowly, with the sun, without an alarm. It’s having time, real time, to sit with my coffee and not rush into the day.

It’s being present with my husband and my aging parents, not distracted, not divided.

Just there.

It’s working from home, building something that belongs to me. Creating income that continues to grow, even in stillness.

It’s knowing that my time is my own.

No asking for permission. No waiting to be allowed to rest, or travel, or live.

Just freedom.

Success is no longer about building a life that looks full. It’s about building a life that feels full.

It’s choosing a slower rhythm.

Stepping away from the constant pressure to do more, be more, prove more.

It’s closing the day early. Reading all the books by my bed.

Letting life feel soft again. Success for me now is owning my time.

It’s traveling when I feel called to. Meeting people from different cultures. Seeing the world with curiosity, not urgency.

It’s simplifying. Owning less.

Needing less. Letting go of what doesn’t add meaning.

And making space for what does:

A walk by the beach. A small garden growing slowly. A home that feels calm.

A life that feels mine.

No hustle culture. Yes peace culture. What does success means to you today, after all you’ve been through? Is it the same as 5 or 10 years ago?

I used to think success was something I had to reach.

Now I understand… It’s something I choose.

Every day.

It excited me to think what the future would be… i was convinced i would write books and would live a life of unparalleled impact.

I grew up with pen and paper. Curled in my bed every late afternoon by the window, listening to tropical rain, while words would gather in my head wanting to be printed and expressed.

My bedroom shared a wall with the kitchen and mom would knock it a few times to request i stop writing and go have dinner. “Five more minutes!” I would say but she would keep knocking while i wrote as fast as i could.

Inspiration used to come as quickly as a wrecking ball and i needed to catch it or lose it. Those hits of sudden inspiration are no joke, they come and go as they please. They don’t knock, they barge in. You have to comply to your vessel assignment.

Writing felt like breathing. Grounding each erratic young thought beautifully within the realm of reality.

Sad? Write. Excited? Write. Growing pains? Write. Reading Carl Jung & Wayne Dyer at 13, 15, 17 saved me in more ways than i can recall.

College granted me studies in Journalism and TV Production. Went on to start a Clinical Psychology Masters Degree i wasn’t able to finish. Journalism became my home for many years and the writing became random. Occasional. Put aside.

My life became the news cycle. The Breaking News rotation that brakes your soul one headline at a time.

News were politics or the latest crime, the horrendous accident or the animal abuse case in the town over. Year after year my magical hints of intuition and inspiration started fading. Not noticeable at first but in constant crescendo.

A massive layoff left me in a quest of continuing the “hustle” or stepping back and ask “is this the magical life of impact i dreamed of?”

I was tired, unmotivated and uninspired. I sat to write. Nothing would come out. No poems. No songs. No thoughts on paper. I kept journaling, but the magical inspiration and sudden creativity that came so easily, was gone.

My career choices turned everything the other way around. When the paycheck is satisfactory, is easy, sometimes even mandatory to silence yourself. There’s no time to remember who you were and then fear settles in your bones. It’s hard to shake.

You are too busy hustling. Growing. Maintaining. Comparing. Competing. Morphing.

Remembering is not needed. No one wants to look back. The present moment is what gathers book titles and accolades. At least, that’s what we all think.

However, once you get numb enough to keep your soul untouched for so long, only the act of doing will help you bring your magic back.

It might be dormant, but trust me, it ain’t dead.

Today take a minute to recall your early drops of inspiration. Are you creating impact or are you being fully impacted by your place in the world? Are you creating or all consuming?

Reconnecting with ourselves and finding us through life’s debris is not only needed but it’s our assignment. If you are reading this, there’s still time. It’s not the other way around.