‘Don’t regret growing older — it’s a privilege denied to many.’
A version of this quote (originally attributed to Mark Twain) was sent to me by friends who wanted to remind me that things are as they should be.
Do you ever wonder though about the randomness of death?
I do.
I wonder why some lives are cut short while others stretch on — why Brenda was denied the privilege of growing older.
And I wonder: am I supposed to be doing something more, something special with my life because I’ve been given this privilege?
Should I be living more intentionally?
But what does that even look like?
Is it enough to be sewing pretty bags? It brings me joy. Is that selfish?
Should I be doing more? For society at large?
One of those friends reflected that they’d been given extra time.
I was curious what he meant — was he speaking broadly, like all of us are living on borrowed time? Or was he talking about something more personal — his wife’s near-death experience?
It turns out it was the latter. He feels they’ve been given extra time together — and I understand why.
It made me think about Brenda.
While I haven’t faced a medical crisis myself, I’ve still been given time she never got.
Time that now feels like extra time.
As we know, she didn’t have the privilege of growing older.
I also thought about Barry’s prognosis.
Have we been given extra time?
I believe he has (and by extension, I have) — with these treatments.
Once again, I feel grateful, yet confused.
Brenda was denied the privilege of getting older.
Barry, while still here, isn’t going to grow much older.
And yet — here I stand.
It makes me wonder: what am I supposed to be doing with my life? Is there a bigger purpose?
Because growing older really is a privilege, isn’t it?
Should I be doing more though?
I love sewing. It’s not only creative but teaches me patience on a regular basis. Problem-solving is also a main attraction for my sewing, given my many mistakes. Sourcing interesting fabrics is wildly fun. I can immerse myself into sewing so much that I can actually forget my problems. Is this a bad thing?
And writing allows me to untangle my thoughts and helps me make sense of the world. It’s a wonderfully creative outlet that I derive so much pleasure from.
And being with friends feeds my soul. Give-take. Listen-talk. Share. And love-there’s always love. And mutual respect.
Fabric. Stitches. Sentences. Friends.
All this brings me much joy.
But… is it enough?
Is this what I ought to be doing with my extra time?
It feels like this privilege comes with responsibility — like it carries weight.
Because if I am privileged to grow older… how do I square that with having fun?
Can joy itself be a purpose?
Or does it need to be bigger?
Maybe joy is enough.
Maybe it’s everything.
Maybe “more” isn’t bigger — it’s deeper.
Maybe living intentionally just means choosing joy, on purpose.