I don’t remember his exact words. What I remember is the look in his eyes when he said, "That’s the thing about God’s plan—it only makes sense in retrospect.'”

Although I cannot go back in time and have a conversation with my previous self to let him know that it will all be ok, not just because I do not have a time machine, but because I am myself not sure at this point. There are still a few promises I want to make to the past version of myself, the 14, 16, and 18yr old versions of myself deep in a struggle with no visible way out.

Dear Simmy,

I promise.

I promise that whatever it is that you are experiencing will eventually expire.

I promise that you will eventually get clean, and I promise that you will eventually relapse.

I promise that you will find a woman who you love, and I promise that she will break your heart.

I promise that you will make more money at once than you ever thought possible, and I promise that you will lose it all faster than you made it.

I promise that you will meet 2 great men named Weston and Luke who will completely alter the trajectory of your life, and I promise you that they will both be gone in a heartbeat.

I promise that you will experience emotional highs, unlike what you ever previously thought to be possible, and I promise that you will experience soul crushing lows that would break almost anyone. ALMOST ANYONE.

I promise that at the lowest point of your life you will be blessed to have a beautiful loving creature, an embodiment of all that is good in this world, a piece of God himself, enter your life in the form of an annoying little 5lb white pomeranean named Yogi. You will love him, and he will love you. You will connect so deeply with Yogi that it forever alters your perception of what love is. He will be your world, he will be your companion, you will take him everywhere (yes everywhere), and he will be your everything, he will just be.

And just like that, you will receive a devastating phone call one day and he will be gone.

You will hold the now lifeless body of the most energetic and loving creature you have ever met in your arms, his blood seeping through your shorts and his lifeless eyes glazed over.

You will cry harder than you have ever cried, and you will give him one final kiss as you lay him down into the ground.

Your heart will shatter into a million pieces and you will want to fall apart, you will want to break down, you will want to give up, you will want to just end it all.

Nothing will make sense, where do I go, what do I do, how can I live!? It will be unbearable.

But Dear Simmy,

I promise.

I promise you will love again.

I promise that whatever it is that you are experiencing will eventually expire.

The very same day of the death, every community member will move something out of place (a piece of furniture, a statue, anything of significance).

In doing so, they show the bereaved in their community that everything has changed, that they too feel the loss, and they too are affected by it.

One of the most powerful realizations I have had when faced with tragedy, losing the being in this world I loved most, is that simply put:

Nothing Changes

For a few days, people asked me how I was doing, offered their sympathy.

For a few weeks, people wish condolences.

Eventually, they stop.

But what about me?

For me, everything changed. For me, I fundamentally see and experience the world differently now.

I wake up every day with a hole in my heart so big that I get physically caught off guard.

Every night, I come home to an empty house.

I exhale, I make myself dinner in silence, take a shower, maybe play my guitar, and then I go and lay in bed with my eyes open for hours.

When people ask me questions about things like business models, and dieting now, my answers are bland.

Things I used to feel so passionately for are now meaningless.

But the world goes on.

Nothing Changes

Although I am drowning, gasping for air, life goes on.

Bills need to be paid, workouts need to be done, food needs to be eaten.

Somehow, while this great white rapid of grief washes over me and I am seemingly weighted down by lead boots, unable to find the desire to move forward, I must find a way to swim.

Nothing changes, but somehow:

Everything has changed.

Maybe my perspective was due for a shift?

After all, the very first thought I had when I got home to find Yogi's body was that I would give up every dollar I have ever and will ever earned to live with him in some shack in the mountains for the rest of our lives.

After all, had you asked me how I was doing when I was on a hike with Yogi last year, I probably would have said:

"Pretty good, but I wish I had 100mm in the bank right now."

Now, given the choice between that hike with Yogi and the latter, I wouldn't hesitate before taking the hike.

After Yogi died, I wrote a letter to my younger self talking about the word:

Énouement

Noun. the bitter-sweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.

In that letter, I promised my younger self that I would experience pain, and joy, and everything in between, and somehow I would be ok.

Maybe this time:

Everything has changed.

Maybe this time, I will go hug my younger siblings, I will cherish my time with them and not spend it stressing about other nonsense.

Or maybe this time:

Nothing has changed.

Maybe nothing had to.

Maybe the present moment has been perfect all along.

Subscribe now