Life is delicate, defined as easily broken or damaged, fragile.

There's nothing around you that's forever. There's no permanence in our world and sometimes this is a difficult

thing to grasp. Certainly it's why we long for patterns of consistency where we can find them.

We do everything we can to manufacture some semblance of predictability for as long as we can.

Doing our best to repress the idea that everything we know is as temporary as a setting son.

I had a family member rushed to the ER a few days ago.

And thank God she's completely fine.

She's back home.

She's doing her thing.

But I can't stop thinking about the call.

How it shook me to my core.

How my walls of certainty and predictability were breached.

It was this unsettling reminder that life as we know it isn't guaranteed,

that things we love, they're not untouchable. I had to look my helplessness in the face for the first time in a while and realize, well, just how little of the world is mine to control.

Which brings me back to a conversation I had when I was younger.

I talk about my grandfather often in my work, primarily because of a few impactful conversations that we had.

And it's interesting to me how relevant they continued to be. I remember a handful of

times we talked from childhood. And it's like I piece them together retroactively. Things make

sense as I get older and kind of figure out what it all means. One of my last conversations

with him, we went to this little diner called Leos along the Cape Cod Canal.

And he said to me, there are things now that seem impossible. But as you grow and you get older,

they make sense, right? Even the most challenging things become manageable.

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