Two weeks ago, I experienced something that changed me.
I had multiple seizures. For a period of time, I genuinely believed I might die.
I don’t say that dramatically. It’s simply what I experienced.
I’m doing well now. The seizures were caused by hypoglycemia, and I’ve since made eating consistently throughout the day a non-negotiable part of my routine.
As I’ve recovered, I’ve realized that the greatest gift this experience gave me wasn’t an answer.
It was a question.
If today were my last day on earth, what deserves my attention?
For years, I unknowingly spent enormous amounts of my life trying to convince people who I was. Trying to explain my intentions. Trying to defend my decisions. Trying to prove my character. Trying to correct misunderstandings. Trying to earn acceptance.
The conversations often became long, exhausting, and circular. I would leave feeling drained, wondering if I had simply not explained myself well enough.
Now I see something different: every hour I spend trying to convince someone who refuses to see me is an hour of my life I will never get back.
Life is made up of days. Days are made up of moments. Moments are made up of attention. Where we place our attention is, in many ways, where we place our life.
If today were truly my last day, would I spend it arguing with someone about whether I’m a good person? No. Would I spend it trying to persuade someone committed to misunderstanding me? No. Would I spend it defending decisions I’ve already made? No.
Instead, I would write. I would hold the people I love. I would laugh. I would rest. I would notice the beauty around me. I would tell the people who have shown up for me how grateful I am. I would spend my remaining time building relationships where both people are free to be themselves.
This experience has changed the way I think about boundaries. I used to believe boundaries were mostly about saying “no.” Now I think they’re also about saying “yes.”
Yes to peace. Yes to mutual respect. Yes to relationships where I don’t have to continually explain my humanity.
This experience also taught me to be swift with the scissors—swift with discernment, not swift with anger. Swift in recognizing when a conversation is no longer healthy. Swift in recognizing when a relationship is costing me my peace and I have to consistently prove who I am. Swift in recognizing when my nervous system is telling me that I’m trying to earn something that should never have required earning in the first place.
There are billions of people in this world. Life is far too precious to spend it convincing a small handful of people to see what they have already decided not to see. Instead, I want to spend my life building bridges with those who value curiosity over conclusions, listening over assumptions, and relationship over being right.
I don’t know how many days I have left. None of us do.
In the ambulance, genuinely believing I might be about to die, I kept thinking about how much of my life I had spent defending who I am, proving my worth, and nurturing relationships that were not healthy for me. I thought about how much time I had given to people who required me to prove my worth and how that had cost me opportunities to build relationships with people who did not require me to prove myself simply to exist.
But I do know this: when my last day comes, I don’t want to look back and realize I spent too much of my life defending who I was. I want to know that I spent it fully becoming who I was created to be.
So today, before you give another hour of your attention away, ask yourself one simple question:
If today were my last day, is this worthy of my life?
