loved with my eyes closed and was torn to shreds—but I’m still here. More important than my stories of surviving the worst-case scenarios are your stories. You’ve suffered and will continue to suffer loss, and often it’s out of your hands. But you do hold the power of deciding whether you can handle more loss and whether the journey is worth it despite the loss.
I cried writing this chapter because I miss Himmatt with all my heart. A new dog wouldn’t replace him; it would only be a new experience and adventure, with its own ups and downs, problems and solutions, beauty and horror. I’ve given myself permission to be fearful, but I won’t allow those feelings of fear to decide my actions moving forward. My fear of loss doesn’t have to stop me from having relationships with dogs that my friends’ live with or dogs I pass on the street.
For you, fear might mean taking that baby step toward a first date, or even having a conversation with your crush. Maybe it’s spending time in a new city, or actively searching out new people to connect with. We don’t have control over how 99.999999 percent of things turn out, but we’ll always have control over our efforts and our perspectives, and that counts for something. If we go in with an open heart toward the possibility of loss, then maybe the blow won’t feel so traumatic. As someone who’s NOT Winnie the Pooh once said: “How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
All of our emotions have value, and as unpleasant as some are, they’re reminders that we’re alive and have a whole lot going on inside. Why not approach life with curiosity and wonder, instead of dread and fear. We don’t avoid movies because we know they’ll end. We enjoy the journey they take us on. Our journey is life, and no one makes it out alive; the finish is death, so let’s enjoy life while we can, with those we love, while they’re still here.
Eleven years with Himmatt was most definitely better than never having him at all. Every day was a gift, and now being grateful for that gift is my priority. It’s okay to make room for the fear and self-pity; just be mindful that they don’t overstay their welcome.
If things lasted forever, would we be able to appreciate them?
I’m writing this while I sit in first class flying to LA from NYC, eating a warm chocolate chip cookie, which was a great follow-up to Dessert Part 1: a hot fudge sundae. This is my first, and maybe last, time flying first class, and no, I didn’t pay for this ticket. To get it, all I did was agree to attend an event. I napped, watched a few reruns of 30 Rock, and ate every piece of food I was offered, because I don’t know whether this will ever happen again. I know that the people sitting beside me consider this an average day, and because of that, they don’t appreciate it the way I do.
I can appreciate this humble brag only because I’ve learned that as quick as it comes is as quick as it goes. The fact that nothing lasts forever is a double-edged sword, and we have to be careful. Just because nothing is going to last doesn’t mean we can abandon our responsibilities. Statistically speaking, if you’re reading this, then the odds are in your favor that you’ll be here for a solid three-quarters of a century, and that means you have to plan accordingly. Our circumstances last longer than our feelings, but it’s those feelings that have a massive impact on our circumstances. I’m only a kid in a candy store on this flight because I’m aware that this experience is a short, rare one and so I should make the most of it. Most of the wonderful things and people we have in our lives are just like this first-class flight: temporary, rare, and worth our highest levels of gratitude. Letting go is never easy when we get used to things.
This flight won’t last forever, and that’s important, because if it did, I wouldn’t appreciate it. Despite the comforts, extra accommodating flight attendants, and their magical ability to keep the ice cream cold, I wouldn’t want this flight to last forever. I want to have other experiences, and those will also come with an expiry date. The challenge is, we want the good stuff to last and struggle to believe that the bad stuff will ever end. The heartbreaks, regrets, pain of loss all seem to tattoo themselves into our beings, but just like this flight, they won’t last. Sometimes the only reason these feelings stick around is because we don’t let them go.
Nothing remains forever, and that idea scares and excites the shit out of me at the same time. It’s that rollercoaster of our life in the theme park we built, and it’s fun only because it makes us feel butterflies in our tummies. The glory of our victories and the disappointments of our defeats all become memories. When we realize this, we’re free to choose dread or gratitude when facing them. Gratitude is the only thing that will make us smile, so if smiling is your jam, lean in that direction.
Everyone wants to avoid the reality of death and how temporary everything is. We’re coded to survive, so it makes sense that we have our blockers on; it wouldn’t make for much of a life if we viewed everything as simply temporary, and thus not worth our time. But we don’t have to choose to see the world one way or the other. Life is a spectrum of experiences, and we can dance in between them, because between is all that matters. Life is what happens between birth and death—that little hyphen that shows up on our gravestones between our birthday and our death day. It’s the between that allows me to goof around and get work done on this comfortable six-hour flight. It’s that in-between period in life that opens up endless possibilities for what our lives can become.
One day the star we call our sun will burn out, the galaxy we call the Milky Way will fade, the universe we call home will cease to be, and there will be nothing. Before any of that happens, we’ll become nothing too, and that’s okay; it just means we should appreciate who and what we have, while we have them, for however long we have left.
I hope someone is reading this well after I’m gone and is scratching his or her head about what a first-class flight is.[1] I’ll take comfort in knowing my thoughts outlived the mind that manifested them, if only for a few extra millennia.
Exit
You won’t return like the sunrise
But I’ll feel your warmth
What did I do to deserve the few moments we had
I’m overwhelmed
When you brought me pain, you brought me rain
And a seed of wisdom came to sprout
Your voice vibrates with a half-life of infinity
Everything will be said, will be said forever
Until there’s no one left to hear it
And then it won’t matter
In a temporary world, it matters that you shared your temporary time with me
I’ll see you in forever
Enter
Roses are red, violets are blue
Listening to your parents
Means
