Introduction: The Lie You’ve Been Fed
I am 73 years old, and I’m here to tell you that everything society taught you about aging is a lie. Your parents, your teachers, and the world around you have been repeating a script they don’t even realize is wrong. I spent five decades following that same script, believing I had it all figured out because I had the career, the house, and the prestige. But at 52, a single moment shattered that illusion and forced me to see life, death, and everything in between with terrifying clarity.
That day at 52 became the line in the sand: the first 52 years on autopilot, the next 21 lived on purpose.
The Moment the Autopilot Broke
I wasn’t doing anything heroic when it happened. I was in a meeting discussing quarterly projections when the room began to spin. The doctors called it a “cardiac event”; I call it the day my heart tried to kill me to save my soul. Waking up in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and my wife’s tears, I realized I had been living my entire life on autopilot. I was just going through the motions, meeting everyone’s expectations but my own. If I had died that day, my only legacy would have been a retirement account and achievements that would be forgotten within five years.
The Mirage of “Someday”
The most dangerous lie you are telling yourself right now is: “I have time”. We see it in every decade—people in their 20s, 30s, and 40s promising they will finally live once they get that promotion, once the kids are grown, or once they retire. But I am telling you now: that day never come. The goalposts always move. You climb a ladder for 30 years only to realize it was leaning against the wrong wall, and time doesn’t let you climb down and start over.
Whether you’re 25, 45, or 65, the clock is moving in one direction.
The Trap of Success
Take it from someone who achieved everything he set out to: Success, on its own, is a terrible goal. You reach the peak, feel amazing for about 48 hours, and then you’re back to the baseline, chasing the next hit of validation. I had a friend who built a multi-million-dollar empire, working 70-hour weeks and postponing joy until “next year.” Next year never came; he had a stroke and died at 68, leaving a son who barely knew him.
The Weight of What We Didn’t Do
When you are lying awake at night at 73, you won’t be haunted by failed business deals. You will be haunted by the roads not taken. You’ll think about the trip to Japan you were “too busy” for, the book you never started, and the relationships you let wither. My greatest regret isn’t a failed deal—it’s every Sunday I didn’t call my father before he died suddenly when I was 45. I thought we had time; we didn’t.
The 21-Year Resurrection
For the last 21 years, I have lived more than I did in the previous 52. I stopped sacrificing what matters for what doesn’t. I started saying “no” to obligations that drain me and “yes” to experiences that fulfill me. I’m happier now at 73, knowing my time is short, than I was at 30 when I thought I was invincible.
The Final Ultimatum
Ask yourself honestly: If you die tomorrow, would you be satisfied with the life you’ve lived? If the answer is no, stop waiting for permission. Stop waiting for more money, the right project, or a better time. Your parents are getting older, your children are growing, and your own clock is ticking. Someday is today.
Call someone you’ve been putting off, start the project you keep postponing, or book the trip you keep talking about—today, not someday.
“What are you going to do with your time?”
Analogy for Understanding:
Think of your life like a one-way train ticket, with the windows covered in fog. Most people spend the journey polishing their seats and organizing their luggage, convinced the train will stop at a beautiful destination where they can finally step out and enjoy the view. They don’t realize the train never stops—it keeps moving until the tracks end. Living intentionally is like wiping the fog off the glass right now, so you can actually see the landscape as you pass through it, rather than waiting for a destination that doesn’t exist.