Steven LaChance Blog

Lately, I’ve been feeling the weight of time. It’s hitting me that I’ve lived more years than I probably have left, and no matter how I try to shake it, the truth stays. One day, I won’t be here. And that day is coming faster than I ever imagined.

One morning, people who love me will wake up and it’ll be the first morning without me in the world. They’ll start their day without hearing my voice, without getting a text or a stupid meme, without knowing they can reach out and hear me laugh or complain or say something totally inappropriate just to make them smile. That silence will be loud. And permanent. At least in the way we understand things here.

I think about that more than I used to. Not in a dark, hopeless way. More like a wake-up call. A reminder to live the hell out of what’s left. To be present. To say what needs to be said. To love the people in my life so hard that when that day comes, they’ll still feel it in every room I’m no longer in.

Because that morning is coming. For all of us. The question is—what will we leave behind for the ones who wake up after we’re gone?

I hope what I leave behind feels like something more than just loss. I hope it feels like love that stuck around. I hope it shows up in laughter at the wrong moments and stories told at kitchen tables and memories that still carry warmth. I hope they feel me in the quiet. I hope they know they were never unloved, not even for a second.

That’s all I really want now. To matter in the way that stays.