Far from perfect.
But one hell of a life.
I don’t want to leave this world with a mint condition body. When my time comes, I won’t hand the dirt something untouched. It’ll be worn. Scarred. A little broken. Not because life was unfair, but because I lived it.
Not because I collected scars by accident. Anyone can do that.
I want every scar to mean I was in the arena.
That I left home to build a new life. That I took risks. That I failed and got back up. That I built things worth building. That I loved deeply. That I made mistakes I still carry, and learned from them. That I became a father and decided the cycle ended with me.
Some scars are visible. Most aren’t.
Theodore Roosevelt once wrote:
“Far better it is to dare mighty things… than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much.”
That has always resonated with me.
I don’t fear the dirt. I fear reaching the end and realizing I spent my life trying to preserve myself instead of using myself.
I want to be able to say:
“I used everything I was given. I didn’t keep the good china locked in the cabinet. I wore the engine out instead of letting it rust. If this body is broken, it’s because I asked everything of it, and it answered.”
A mint condition body might tell the story of a sheltered life.
A worn one tells another story.
It speaks of oceans crossed, mountains climbed, children carried on tired shoulders, sleepless nights solving impossible problems, embraces that lasted longer than they needed to, and countless mornings when getting up was a choice that had to be made again.
Life has a way of changing what we think matters.
When I was younger, I thought success was measured in titles, wealth, and accomplishments. Those things have their place, but they aren’t what stay with us.
What stays are the walks with no destination. The conversations that changed us. The people we loved. The memories we gave our children. The moments that quietly became part of someone else’s story.
Maybe that is what growing older really means.
Not becoming smaller.
Becoming clearer.
One day, if my granddaughter asks my daughter what Grandpa was like, I hope she doesn’t say I was successful.
I hope she smiles and says,
“He lived.”
Far from perfect.
But one hell of a life.
Here’s to living.