You haven’t seen the best version of yourself
Have you ever wondered about your impact on this world? I sometimes find myself asking these questions: If I die, who would be sad? Who would care? Who would cry?
However, I have recently been contemplating two distinct stories—two paths that diverge from the same dark place, each with a different perspective on life.
What if I die?
In the first story, I am gone. The people who love me cry—really cry—the crying that comes from somewhere deep and raw. For a week, maybe longer, my absence fills every room I used to occupy. Friends share memories. Family members blame themselves. The world feels tilted, wrong somehow.
After a month, the sharp edges of grief begin to dull. People return to their routines, but they carry a quiet sadness now, like a stone in their pocket they can't quite forget. They still remember me often.
After a year, I have become a story they sometimes tell, a name that causes them to pause, a reminder of fragility. Life has moved on, as it always does, but something beautiful and irreplaceable has been lost forever. At least that is how I think my close friends and family would feel.
Then, years passed. Maybe someone misses me from time to time, but most of the time, I'm no longer on their mind. I am now just a distant memory.
What if I live?
In the second story, I stay. I choose the harder path—the one that asks me to wake up tomorrow and try again.
It's not glamorous. Some days, it's just about showing up, and other days, it's just about breathing.
After a week of staying, maybe I've tried one small thing differently. Perhaps I've reached out to someone. Maybe I've taken a walk or made myself a decent meal. Maybe I slowly began to enjoy life.
After a month, there may be a shift—subtle, yet genuine. A conversation that would not have taken place had I chosen not to live, a moment of laughter shared with those I would've missed otherwise. A problem that would not have been addressed.
After a year, I might be somewhere completely unexpected. Not perfect—because life will never be perfect—but different. Maybe stronger. Maybe helping someone else who's standing where I once stood, wondering if they should stay.
Then, years passed, and I'd be grateful because I chose to live.
Reasons to keep going
Here's what I've learned about staying alive: it's rarely about something big or significant. It's about the accumulation of small choices: the decision to eat something nourishing, step outside, listen to music that moves you, notice something beautiful—really notice the small and beautiful things in life.
When you stay, you give yourself the chance to be the person who helps someone else stay. You become part of an invisible network of people who understand that life can be brutally hard, yet you choose to remain anyway.
What if you stay alive?
If you're reading this and you're in that place—that heavy, calculating place—I want to offer you something simple: What if you stay alive?
Not because life is easy (it's not).
Not because everything will be fine (it might not be).
But because you haven't seen all your days yet. You haven't met all the people you're going to help. You haven't experienced all the small, quiet moments that make the hard ones bearable.
Stay for the taste of really good food. Stay for sunsets that catch you off guard. Stay for conversations that change how you see things. Stay for the person you might become if you give yourself the chance.
Stay because the world needs people who understand darkness and choose light anyway.
Stay because your story isn't finished yet.
Stay because you haven't seen the best version of yourself.
I hope you find this insightful. Remember:
It's not going to be easy,
But it's not impossible.
Your friend,
Brian.