We’re all a little uneasy about death. Not because it’s mysterious, but because it’s inconveniently final. No matter how old you are, it has a way of sneaking into your thoughts, usually uninvited, usually at the worst moments.

I’m at an age where I’ve attended more funerals than weddings. Oddly enough, I still attend a lot of weddings. Life, apparently, enjoys irony. In just one week, I’ve had to attend three (funerals).

When someone dies, my first thought is almost always the same: what was my last interaction with them?
And then comes the cascade of questions we never manage to ask in time.

Did they live a good life?
What or who have they left behind?
Do we genuinely believe they’re in a better place, or is that something we say because silence feels too cruel?

And why is it that we suddenly find the perfect words once someone is gone? Things we never quite said when they were alive. Things that would’ve mattered more then.

Some losses stay with you longer than others. A family member lost to addiction. A friend taken in an accident. Someone who chose to leave on their own terms. Death doesn’t arrive with consistency or fairness. It just arrives.

Which makes me wonder – not philosophically, but practically – would we behave differently if we knew?
Not when we would go, but if we knew someone we loved wouldn’t wake up tomorrow.

Would the small frictions still matter?
The ego, the irritation, the silent stand-offs?
All the energy we spend being right instead of being kind, would any of that still feel worth it?

What if we treated every interaction like it might be the last?

Not dramatically. Not emotionally overcooked. Just… with a little more intention.

I’m not good at this. Not even close. But since losing a close friend a decade ago, I’ve tried, clumsily, to show up better. To say the things instead of postponing it. To simplify where I can. It doesn’t always work. But it’s a practice, not a performance.

Say what you genuinely love about people while they’re still around to hear it.
Hold your family a little tighter – physically, emotionally, metaphorically.
Call that friend you haven’t spoken to in years, not to fix anything, just to say “hey.”
Tell your parents what you really feel about them, before nostalgia has to do it for you.
Help a struggling friend by saying the simplest, bravest thing: I care. I’m here.
Do a small, kind thing for a stranger without turning it into a story.

And if you wake up the next morning, do it again.

Things might not become perfect.
But they might become lighter.
And maybe, just maybe, a little more humane.

And just to be clear: when I say make amends, I mean with people you love and care about.
Not with terrible humans.
Definitely not your Association President.

Some interactions are life lessons. Those we can just let it be.