Dear my young friends,

25 years ago, I was 29, living in a shared house in Berkeley. My life was suffocating me. I had failed the MCAT exam three times in a row, and my father had lost my childhood home to his gambling addiction. At the time, I was drowning in over $450,000 in student loans, and to top it all off, my car was repossessed—on my birthday. Funny, right? Even on my birthday, life found a way to remind me that my existence wasn’t a blessing.

I wanted to end it all. But I couldn’t shake the thought of how much of my twenties I had sacrificed for this dream of mine. I convinced myself that happiness would finally be within reach once I became the oncologist I had always wanted to be.

And somehow, I made it.

By 34, I had passed the exam, finished my residency, and built the life I had dreamed of. I was curing cancer patients just as I had hoped. I was making good money, bought myself a condo in Walnut Creek, met the love of my life, Susan, and had two beautiful children, now 17 and 18. Looking back, I had accomplished so much. But at the time, I was still trapped in a cycle of worry—about money, about relationships, about my childhood trauma that clung to me like a shadow.

I struggled to show love to my children, haunted by the absence of it in my own upbringing. I took parenting therapy sessions alone on my days off, determined to become the father I had always longed for. On the side, I made investments to ensure my family would never suffer financially. I set aside funds so my kids could pursue the education they wanted.

But I never slowed down. Not really. The truth is, I was never taught how to relax, how to just be in this world without carrying the weight of worry. My life was a series of goals, anxieties, and small victories scattered in between.

Then, at 51—just three years ago—an unexpected visitor knocked on my door.

Cancer.

A doctor who spent his life curing cancer patients got stage 4 brain cancer himself.

I was in disbelief. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. My family—Susan, and our two children, now on the cusp of adulthood—took a gap year just to stay by my side. In the very hospital room I once walked into every day to save others, I now lay in bed, waiting for a cure.

But the worst part? Even while I was suffering through chemo, even though I knew what was killing me, I couldn’t fix myself.

And today, in January 2025, I’ve finally moved into hospice, after giving up on chemo. I sit in this silent room, watching the news as an anchor stresses about how unemployment has skyrocketed since the pandemic. And all I can feel is envy.

To be alive. To be well enough to worry about getting a job. To have the chance to just live a normal life.

And suddenly, I remember all the worries that consumed me growing up—the exams, the promotions, the financial stability, the broken relationships, the stigma of coming from a fractured family. And in the face of death, I realize something cruel and simple.

None of it matters anymore.

I wish I had gone to Italy, to Crema, the place I had always dreamed of visiting. 

I wish I had gone to Bali and ridden an elephant like I had imagined in elementary school. 

I wish I had bought that ‘89 Ford Mustang and driven down Highway 1, through Monterey, with the windows down and music blasting.

I spent my whole life saying one day.

And now, suddenly, I am 54, weighing less than 130 pounds, stuck in a quiet room with nothing but the hum of the TV. My body aches, my fingers tremble, and my reflection in the mirror is that of a stranger. The man who once had dreams, who fought so hard to survive, is fading away.

The saddest part? My phone is silent.

Susan and the kids were here earlier, but life moves on. They step out to get fresh air, to take breaks, to breathe. And I don’t blame them. They are still living. But I am not.

The world is moving forward without me. The sun rises, the streets fill with people, my old colleagues continue to cure patients, my kids continue growing, my wife keeps going—and yet, I am frozen in time, counting down the minutes in a borrowed room.

I spent my whole life fighting to make something of myself. To achieve, to succeed, to fix what was broken inside me.

And now, I am nothing more than a fading memory.

If you are reading this, I am likely already gone.

I just hope that somewhere out there, someone will live the life I never did.

Take the trip. Eat the good food. Buy that stupid car. Love deeply. Waste time.

Because one day is a lie we tell ourselves until it’s too late.

PQHAÜS