I came across a quote I’d seen several years ago that made me stop and think:

“One day, you are going to hug your last hug, kiss your last kiss, and hear someone’s voice one last time. But you never know when the last time will be. Live every day as if it were the last time you will be with the person you love.”

I’ve heard versions of that quote throughout my life, but the older I get, the more it lands differently. The more trips around the sun I take, the more I recognize how true it really is. We live as if the people we love will always be there, as if our routines will go on forever, as if time is something we’ll always have more of.

I learned this lesson more than thirty years ago.

Then I forgot it and took life for granted.

Then, nearly 12 years ago, I remembered it again in the hardest way.

We Fall Into Routine Because We’re Human

When you love someone, it’s natural to fall into patterns. You assume the ordinary days will keep coming. You assume “see you tonight” means there will always be a tonight. You assume the conversations, the kisses, the small rituals will repeat indefinitely.

Early in my first marriage, I understood, in theory, that time was fragile. Loss had touched people around me. I knew life was unpredictable. But knowing something is not the same thing as living like it’s true. And like most people, I slipped into routine—comfortable, familiar, reassuring.

Then loss came, and everything changed.

I told myself I would remember the lesson.

And for a long time, I did… until life smoothed itself out again.

Routine has a way of softening urgency. It makes us forget that the people in front of us are not guaranteed.

“’Til Death Do Us Part” Sounds Poetic Until It Happens

Here’s something I think we don’t really talk about:

We marry someone knowing—knowing—that one day, one of us will leave the other behind. “‘Til death do us part” is not a metaphor. It’s the deal. It’s baked into the promise.

We say those words while imagining decades of tomorrows.

We never think about the part where someone has to go first.

Even outside of marriage, we carry the same blind spot. We move through life as if we’re owed unlimited time with the people we love. We assume the universe will give us warnings, signposts, or countdowns.

But most of the “last times” in our lives don’t announce themselves.

They slip quietly into the ordinary, disguised as just another day.

You don’t know that the breakfast you share will be the last one.

You don’t know that “goodnight” is the last time you’ll hear that voice.

You don’t know that the hug you give is the final one you’ll ever receive.

If you did, you’d hold on a little longer. I know I would. We all would.

Loss Taught Me What Routine Had Made Me Forget

When I lost my second husband, I was reminded—again—that time is not infinite, and neither are the people we love. You would think having lived through loss once would have solidified the lesson forever. But human beings are complicated. We adapt. We forget. We slip back into patterns that make life feel safer than it really is.

When the people in our lives feel permanent, we treat moments as renewable resources. But they’re not.

What grief taught me—twice—is that love doesn’t stop when life does, but opportunity does. The opportunity to say the thing, fix the thing, appreciate the thing, laugh at the thing, show up for the thing. Those windows close without warning.

And yet this isn’t a message about fear.

It’s a message about awareness.

This Isn’t About Mourning — It’s About Living While We Can

I don’t want you to walk away from this thinking about death.

I want you to be thinking about presence.

Not a frantic kind of presence where you feel pressure to make every day meaningful.

Not the Hallmark version of squeezing every drop out of life.

Just a quiet, steady awareness that the people in your life are gifts.

And gifts deserve attention.

Being present is all about intention.

It’s asking yourself:

• Am I really here, or am I on autopilot?
• When was the last time I truly looked at the person I love?
• Do the people who matter know they matter?
• What small moment today deserves my full attention?

This is the kind of awareness that deepens relationships, not out of fear of losing someone, but out of gratitude that they’re here now.

How to Be More Present (Without Making It a Project)

Presence doesn’t require grand gestures. It’s built from tiny, human moments.

Try one of these:

• Let the hug last one second longer.That second is never wasted.
• Slow down long enough to actually hear someone’s voice. Not just the words—their voice.
• Put the phone down during a conversation. Give someone the gift of your full attention.
• Say the thing you think is obvious. “I appreciate you.” “I’m glad you’re here.” “I love this about you.”
• Look for the small, quiet moments that usually pass unnoticed. Sometimes those become the ones you miss the most.

Don’t think of these as tasks. They’re invitations. Invitations to be more present, and to make an impression

Your Turn

I’m not asking you to live like every day is your last. I’m asking you to live like every day matters.

Because it does.

Ask yourself:

• Where am I moving through life on autopilot?
• Who deserves a little more of my attention?
• What moment today can I show up for more fully?

You don’t get to know when the last time will be. None of us do.

But you do get to choose how present you are while the people you love are still here.

And that choice—made in small, honest moments—is what turns ordinary days into memories you’ll carry long after the last time has passed.