Live Like It's The Last Time
I came across this post from Sahil Bloom (fully reproduced below) in my inbox today and the story is so touching that I had to share it. Have a great day!
The Ancient Greeks had two different words for time:
Chronos was the idea of chronological, linear, quantitative time. That all time is equal.
Kairos was a bit different. That there are certain moments or windows that have more meaning. More texture. More importance. More weight.
We’ve all experienced Kairos time. There are certain moments in life that feel etched into our memory. The pivotal turning points. The experiences or events that have a distinct before and after in how we approached the world.
Cruelly, we often don’t realize we’re living one of those moments until after the fact. We look back on it and say, “ah, yes, that was important!”
Well, last week, I had one of those moments—but I knew it right away…
On July 14, I got a message on X that stopped me in my tracks:
"Mr. Bloom, I wanted to write you and thank you for the book you recently published. I was one of the 27 fathers that lost their daughter during the tragic flooding of Camp Mystic. I read your book a few months ago and it really gave me a clear perspective on how to be a more involved father in both of my daughter’s lives. Being a college football coach it is easy to drift away and only focus on my career but the way you explained the real amount of time we have with our kiddos really struck me. I am so thankful your book helped wake me up and cherish those last few months I had with my daughter. Again, thank you for being willing to share your story with the world and I want you to know it made a lasting impact on my life."-Wade Lytal
I read it aloud to my wife, our son nearby playing with his dinosaurs, and we both immediately began to cry.
To have suffered such an unimaginable loss—and yet, to have the grace, presence, and spirit to send a message like that—I knew this man was different.
I knew I had to meet him.
Last week, I pulled up to a small lunch restaurant in San Antonio and sat in the courtyard. It was about 10:45am, but the August sun was already beating down.
A young man came around the corner and entered the courtyard, a warm smile masking his tired eyes. We had never met, but it didn’t matter. The two of us hugged like old friends, a bond forged through his vulnerability.
For an hour, we sat and talked over a simple meal.
About his daughter, Kellyanne, a beautiful 8-year-old with a heart overflowing with kindness and a bold, courageous spirit.
About loss. The struggle. The indescribably painful waves of grief.
About faith. The church. The community who had wrapped them in love.
About identity. The questions about never being the same again. About accepting that the same is no longer an option.
About fatherhood. Being a pillar of strength for his wife and second daughter. Showing up for them as his duty. His responsibility.
And most of all, about time. The time he had cherished with Kellyanne. The memories he had created with her. The precious moments. The lack of regrets because he knew he had been present in those last few months. He had really been there.
He had really loved her. And she knew that.
At the end of the meal, we hugged again and went our separate ways. But I know the bond remains. A lifelong connection. A kinship.
 |
I got in the car, called my wife, and broke down.
All I could think to say was this:
He didn’t know it was the last time. But he lived like it was.
Writer and philosopher Sam Harris once said, “No matter how many times you do something, there will come a day when you do it for the last time.”
There will be a last time your kids want you to read them a bedtime story. A last time you’ll go for a long walk with your sibling. A last time you’ll hug your parents. A last time your friend will call you for support.
All of the things we take for granted today are things we’ll wish we could go back and do.
There’s a last time for all of it.
You won’t know when it’s the last time. But you can live like it is.
Shortly after publishing my book, I was asked by a journalist why I had chosen to include such gut wrenching stories of love and loss. Of a wonderful woman named Alexis Lockhart who had lost her son Jackson just after his 20th birthday. Of a soulful man named Erik Newton who had lost his wife Aubrie when their daughter was just two.
My answer was simple:
To create ripples.
You see, through pain, tragedy, and loss, there is light. It shines through from that darkness. A blinding insight. A clarity. A flash from the other side.
These stories have the power to shine that light on your path. To show you the way. To change the way you live.
To create ripples.
Sitting at my desk, writing this piece, I feel an immense gratitude:
That the ripples I hoped to create were real. That a young father in Texas took the stories to heart. That he loved with every ounce. That he had no regrets.
That he lived like it was the last time.
And I feel an immense privilege:
To be able to share this story. A story of love. Of loss. Of a family in the throes of grief who need our love right now. Of a beautiful little girl gone far too soon.
Of the ripples that her light will create in the world.
They’ve already created one in mine. Last night, my son crawled into bed with us at 1am and woke me up. I was tired and had an alarm set for my usual 4am wake up.
I wanted to tell him to go back to bed, but as he cuddled up next to me, I stopped and said these words in my head:
There will be a last time he crawls into bed next to you. Live like it’s today.
