Between Two Timelines

Tonight, I’m stepping into a room dripping in elegance. My friend Russ is turning 80, and he’s not easing into it quietly. He’s throwing a full-on, unapologetic celebration of being alive. Black tie. A live band. Flowers so extravagant they probably have their own security detail. Each custom-made tablecloth costs more than my rented tux, which honestly feels offensive and fabulous at the same time.

And I love that for him.

I love that he made it to 80 with enough fire in his body to say, yes, I will celebrate myself like this. Not shrinking. Not apologizing. Not dialing it down to make anyone else comfortable. Just fully claiming his life.

Because here’s the thing no one really talks about when they throw those kinds of parties:

Making it to 80 isn’t just about longevity.
It’s about staying in the game.

And not everyone does.

Tomorrow marks five years since Zak’s died.

I didn’t call him “my friend Zak,” and that wasn’t an accident. Because the truth is, we were once inseparable. We burned hot. Trips, laughter, nights that blurred into mornings. The kind of connection that feels like it’s going to last forever… until it doesn’t.

Somewhere along the way, something shifted.
He hardened. Grew sharp. Mean in ways that didn’t feel like him, but also very much were. And beneath all of that… there was something heavier. A quiet resignation. Like he had already started checking out long before his body followed.

He died shortly after turning 50.

And if I’m being honest, it didn’t feel like something that happened to him.
It felt like something he allowed. He got tired of living, and his body granted that wish

Like he was just… done.

So here I am.

In my 60s.
Standing between Russ at 80, raising a glass under crystal chandeliers…
and Zak at 50, who couldn’t find a reason to stay.

And it messes with you.

Because we like to pretend there’s a formula. Eat right. Think positive. Take care of yourself. And yes, those things matter. But they’re not guarantees. Life doesn’t hand out contracts.

Some people are taken early.
Some people linger long.
Some people survive… but stop living somewhere in the middle.

That’s the part that sticks with me.

Not just how long we live…
but whether we’re still choosing to be here. Whether we're actively living our days, or if we're allowing our days to drag us from one year to the next.

Russ is choosing. Loudly. Expensively. Joyfully.
Zak… at some point, stopped.

And me?

I don’t have a grand conclusion tied up in a bow. No tidy lesson. Just this uncomfortable, beautiful awareness that time isn’t promised, and desire isn’t permanent unless you keep feeding it.

So maybe that’s the point.

Not waiting for 80 to celebrate.
Not drifting so far inward that life loses its grip on you.
Not assuming you’ll “feel like living” tomorrow if you’re not feeling it today.

Maybe it’s about catching yourself… right now… and asking:

Am I still in this?
Or am I quietly stepping out?

And if the answer feels shaky… if today feels heavy or flat or just too damn much… then maybe the goal isn’t to fix your whole life.

Maybe it’s simpler than that.

Stay.

Just stay.

Stay for one more day. Stay long enough to catch a laugh, a moment, a breath that feels a little lighter than the one before it. Stay long enough to see if something shifts. Because sometimes it does. Sometimes the good stuff sneaks back in when you weren’t even looking for it.

And if you can’t find it on your own right now… don’t do that part alone.

Reach out. Tell someone. Say it out loud.

If things feel like they’re slipping into a place you can’t handle, call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. There’s a real person on the other end who will sit with you in it. No judgment. No fixing. Just… someone there, helping you hold on.

Because you don’t have to have it all figured out.

You just have to still be here.

And that?

That’s enough for today.