What If We Don’t Make It to 90?

Philippe de Champaigne, Vanitas ou Allegory of human life, 1646

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about death. Not in a morbid, philosophical sense, but in the way that starts close to the chest. A few friends have gotten very sick. And some have died.

Not elderly grandparents, not stories I read online. People I know.

People who still had unread books on their nightstands. People with half-finished plans in their Google Docs. People whose kids still leave drawings on the fridge. Whose kids who still call them “Mom” or “Dad” with a kind of wide-eyed trust in permanence. Who had calendar invites for Monday morning. People who weren’t done yet.

And I can’t stop thinking about how we used to think 40 was old. Remember that?

This is what a mid-40s face looks like without any work done (source)

As kids, 40 felt like ancient, wrinkled, settled. Like someone who already had a full life. Already had their adventures and was probably tucking into early-bird specials by now.

But standing here, just past the edge of 40, it feels like the beginning. Like we’re just starting to make peace with ourselves, understand who we are, and what matters, and what we want to let go of. Forty is when you stop apologizing for who you are. It’s when you start finding your rhythm, even if the melody still wanders like an unscripted jazz line—imperfect, improvised, but finally your own.

So when someone dies at 42, or 47, it doesn’t feel like the end of a long story. It feels like a sentence cut off mid-word.

It shakes you. Not just because of the loss, but because it breaks the narrative we cling to: that a good life naturally unfolds over decades. That there's still time.

In the leadership development work I do, there’s this prompt we use often.

Imagine it’s your 90th birthday. You’re surrounded by the people you love.
What do you want them to say about you?

It’s supposed to be grounding. A way to pull us out of the chaos of inboxes and Slack pings and into the long view. A way to zoom out from the noise and focus on what really matters. And I’ve used that prompt a dozen times, maybe more. I’ve watched people cry answering it. I’ve cried answering it.

But lately I’ve started to wonder: why do we assume we’ll make it to 90? Or even 60?

What does it mean to live a meaningful life if you don’t get decades to shape it?

This isn’t just hypothetical anymore. It’s not something I ask clients in a workshop and then move on. It’s a question I’m waking up with. One I carry with me into the most mundane tasks: paying bills, responding to emails, texting a friend back. What if this is it? What if these are the years I’ll get?

Life is ephemeral. Like vapor. Sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp, always impossible to hold.

There’s a quiet kind of terror in that. But also, strangely, a kind of clarity. Because when you stop assuming there’s more time, the everyday starts to matter more. And you start to see just how much beauty lives in the small, forgettable corners of your life.

I’ve been noticing the way the morning light hits my balcony floor. The sound of a friend laughing at a joke I barely finished telling. The way I feel when I make someone feel seen. I’ve been saying “I love you” more, even if it makes me feel exposed. I’ve been forgiving people who didn’t ask for it, because maybe the weight isn't worth it anymore.

I used to think a great life was something you built. Like a monument. Something that could be measured in milestones and accolades and legacies. But now I’m not so sure.

I’m starting to believe that a great life isn’t built in decades. It’s built in moments. Small ones. Silly ones. The ordinary ones that are so easy to miss.

Maybe a great life is getting to spend a lazy Sunday snuggled on the couch with my daughter, watching silly cartoons with crumb-covered pajamas and bedhead still intact.
Maybe it’s the quiet of a solo run after the school drop-off, when the air is just cool enough and the sun is starting to peek through the trees like it’s letting you in on a secret.
Maybe it’s sneaking in a Saturday brunch with my partner, on one of those rare mornings when all the kids are busy and we get to go on a spontaneous date that didn’t require aligning calendars weeks in advance.
Maybe it’s curling up with my cats, a good book, and a pot of tea that I actually drink while it’s still hot.
Maybe it’s laughing so hard with my girlfriends that we forget what started it, and the hours slide by until we realize it’s 1AM and none of us want to go home just yet.

That’s a great life too. One built not of grandeur but of deep, ordinary joy. The kind of joy you have to be paying attention to notice.

And yes, maybe it’s also about accepting that you could get cancer. Or early-onset Alzheimer’s. Or hit by a car (or an errant motorized scooter in Singapore!) while crossing the street, holding your iced coffee and thinking about dinner.

The world is absurd that way. We are not promised a long runway. We’re not even promised next year. Not even tomorrow.

So then, what does that change?

For me, it changes everything. It makes me want to stop waiting to feel ready. Stop waiting to launch the thing. Say the thing. Forgive the thing. It makes me want to choose joy even when the world feels like it’s burning. It makes me want to show up softer, less certain, more real.

We talk so much about legacy in the leadership development space (and philanthropy!). But sometimes legacy is just how you made someone feel on a Tuesday. Whether you made the time to answer the phone when they were in pain. Whether you smiled at them like you meant it.

If I don’t get to live until 90, I hope the people I love still know what I stood for. I hope they remember how I made them feel. I hope they know I tried to live with some kind of intention, even if I didn’t always get it right.

And more than anything, I hope they know I noticed. The way they laughed. The way the trees looked as the sun rose. The way an ordinary Tuesday could feel like magic if you really paid attention.

This isn’t a lesson. There’s no neat takeaway. I’m still afraid. I definitely don’t want to die young!

But I’m trying, every day, to live like I know it’s all temporary. To live like joy is not a reward for working hard enough. It’s a right. A birthright. One we have to keep choosing, even when things fall apart.

A great life might just be one where you found joy on purpose. Where you weren’t so focused on impact that you forgot to live.

So today, I’ll sip my coffee slowly instead of gulping it down purely for the caffeine. I’ll go outside without my phone. I’ll pause and let my daughter regale me about squishy makeovers for as long as she wants. I’ll let it all matter, even if it doesn’t make sense.

Because if this is it — if this is the middle, or the end, or just another ordinary day — I want to be awake for it.

I want to be here for all of it.