I see dead people. Okay they’re not really dead. They’re just not fully alive. They’re what I call the living dead! I’m not talking zombies, but damn close. Zombie-ish. People who wake up every morning, but never truly wake up. People who are existing without meaning and moving without purpose and not fully living. Some days I find myself to be among them. Many days. Sometimes the cure is just a day or two in New York City, which luckily is a convenient train ride away. The minute I step outside of Penn Station, I feel like I come to life. I also feel about twenty years younger. Just a simple escape from my everyday existence is like a alarm clock. I wake up. (and in NYC, you better be awake!)
Is this you? Are you just existing? Or are you living? Are you waking up? Not just getting up in the AM but actually waking up. Are you awake, or are you sleepwalking through life? Are you fully alive or one of the walking dead? Just punching the clock in the morning and at night.
If you had to write your own eulogy, what would it say? Would it be worth listening to—or would people nod off because you never did anything remarkable, never took risks? If you don’t like the answer when you asked yourself that question, start rewriting it—now. Each day gives you an opportunity to do some editing.
I remember many years ago reading this poem by Linda Ellis called The Dash. An excerpt follows:
For it matters not, how much we own,
the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.
So, think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
that can still be rearranged.
Now ask yourself this question. How are you living your dash? That little line between the year you were born and the year you’ll leave this world. Living your dash isn’t about grand gestures or fame. It’s about impact. What did you do to make the world a better place? (Even in small ways?) What did you do to make your existence meaningful, joyful, worth remembering? Living your dash doesn’t require changing the whole world. It’s about the small ways you can show up. It can be as simple as a kind word to a stranger, mentoring someone younger, volunteering, or simply being fully present with the people you love. (Yes! Put the phone down!)
We often talk about aging as if it’s only about wrinkles, gray hair, and slowing down. But the real tragedy isn’t in the number of candles on the cake, it’s in how many people stop living long before their flame goes out. They’re still here, still breathing, still going through the motions, but their spark is gone.
I have asked myself, “How do you want to age? (Because you don’t really have a choice! You’re going to! Well, there is one option, but I’m not interested in that one just yet!) Should we still put our energy into chasing dreams, goals, and plans, or live each day as if it were our last, squeezing joy out of every moment? However you may choose to live, just be sure you are living. Maybe the answer is both.
Fill your dash it with purpose, joy, and meaning so that when your story is told, it’s one worth celebrating. Aging doesn’t have to mean fading. It can mean waking fully, finally, and deciding to live.
You are alive.
But are you living?
I see people every day—
hearts still beating, lungs still breathing—
yet their light has dimmed.
They move through time like shadows,
punching clocks, filling calendars,
never tasting the sweetness of now.
The tragedy of aging isn’t the years on your skin,
but the years you surrender without truly being awake.
Sleepwalking.
Existing.
The living dead.
Wake up.
Not just to the alarm clock,
but to the miracle of being here.
Wake up to your dash—
that fragile line between beginning and end.
What story will yours tell?
A whisper that fades in silence?
Or a song that lingers long after you’re gone?
You don’t have to be famous.
You don’t have to be perfect.
But you do have to live—
to love deeply, laugh loudly,
give generously, risk boldly.
Because life is not about how long you were here.
It’s about how awake you dared to be.
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Hi, I’m here – Tammy