Thirteen Years

It’s a strange thing, getting older. You don’t notice it happening day to day, but then one morning you realize you’re thinking about your own mortality more than you ever have. I’ll be entering my seventieth year this August. Seventy. That’s only thirteen years from the age my father and mother passed away. Thirteen years. When I look back thirteen years, it feels like the blink of an eye — my first granddaughter was born thirteen years ago. That’s how fast it goes.

I love life. I really do. I work hard to preserve it, protect it, and be grateful for every moment. But I’m also realistic. I know how fragile it is. I know how quickly the years stack up. And I know that the window between “still doing fine” and “needing help” is smaller than people think.

That’s why I take care of myself. That’s why I plan. Because I want to be around — not just existing, but living — for as long as I can. And when the day comes that I can’t, I want to be somewhere safe and decent, with caring people around me, not in some state facility where dignity gets lost in the shuffle. I don’t want my kids or grandkids worrying, rearranging their lives, or feeling guilty. I want them to visit because they want to, not because they have to.

When I look at young people today, I worry. Not because they’re bad — they’re not. But because they don’t think about the future the way our generation does. We grew up knowing life could turn on a dime. We planned, we saved, we fixed things ourselves. They live like time is endless, like health is guaranteed, like the country will somehow sort itself out no matter what. They don’t see how fast it all moves. They don’t see how quickly “someday” turns into “right now.”

I get it — when you’re young, you think you’ve got decades to figure it out. But those decades disappear faster than you can imagine. And if you don’t start thinking about where you’re headed — financially, physically, mentally — you’ll wake up one day realizing you’ve run out of road.

I’m not preaching. I’m just saying what’s true. Life is short, and it’s precious. And the older you get, the more you realize how much of it you’ve already spent.

So yeah, I think about mortality. Not in a dark way — in a practical way. It’s not fear. It’s awareness. It’s gratitude mixed with realism. I know what’s coming, and I’m doing everything I can to make sure when it does, I’m ready — and my family doesn’t have to carry the weight.

That’s what gives me direction now. Not ambition. Not ego. Just the desire to finish strong, with dignity, peace, and a little grace.