How is it humanly possible, I wondered, to work for most of the daylight (plus some of the nightlight) hours of (at least) every weekday for multiple decades and feel like one is living anything close to a full life?

Mid-flight, somewhere between California and New York, I woke up from a dream in which I was horrified to realize more than half of my life was likely over. I had lost years of time, without knowing where that time had gone.

I wonder how different my life might have been if I always had been wholly unafraid to use my voice. I grieve a little bit for my younger self—and for everyone who fears, even a little, to speak.

The clients I know are constantly being thrown into some kind of transition. But they don’t often see the transition they’re in. Instead, they see themselves in transit.

I was on the verge of starting to tell my team that I planned to leave at the end of January to pursue my passion for coaching. Then an unexpected email arrived.

Early on Sunday morning, one of my dad’s best friends died. I’ll call him Uncle Q. Uncle Q. and my dad and three other men have been a “gang of five” for 60 years, ever since they first met in college.

One day, I had no expectations whatsoever that we would go live somewhere else for a year. And then the next day, I was imagining a plan for doing exactly that.

If my boundaries are constantly being tested and re-negotiated, how do I define them? If I can’t define them, how do I possibly protect, let alone communicate, them?

I’ve taken up one of my favorite at-home pastimes: looking through the things I’ve saved and considering whether there’s been any change in my attachment levels. Is there anything I am now less attached to?

We are often told that sometimes all we need to do to move forward is to let go of who we once were. But sometimes the gift might just be in embracing it.

I was once taught that to be someone who only dabbles in things like a silly amateur, without ever achieving true mastery, was the worst thing I could be. Now I know better.

What is there to learn from two large stones who are sad for one hundred years, before they are happy?

Metaphors are magical. If we pay more attention to what metaphors we apply to our lives, we can understand more deeply what we’re experiencing and where we’re stuck. As we change our metaphors, we change ourselves.

I had the courage to leave corporate life to pursue, well, life, when I realized that it’s not the answer that matters, but the question—and that we are desperately in need of better questions to ask ourselves and each other.

Where it truly matters—in the living of my life, in the living of our lives—do we live the simple truth that “there is no one else” to do the living?