Thoughts on Thursday: I Hope I Die First

TL;DR: This isn't a wish for an early exit. It's a loud reminder to live so deeply intertwined with your people that the idea of life without them doesn't make sense. To be more intentional, less isolated, and more present in the relationships that make it all worth it.

The Text

I was standing in Tim Hortons the other day, just people-watching as I waited in line.

At one point, I noticed a few older gentlemen, each sitting alone. Wedding bands still on their fingers, sipping their coffee as they stared out the window. Nothing dramatic, just quiet. But something about it hit me sideways.

I texted: "I hope I die first."

What I meant was: I want a life so full of connection that the idea of isolation at the end feels wrong. I want my days so woven into other people's lives that the thought of outliving all of it feels heavier than the thought of being the one to go first.

Because here's what I realized watching those guys: Life can get really lonely when it's just you and your own thoughts. When everything lives in your head instead of in shared moments, shared experiences, shared memories.

Forty and the Coffee Shop Test

I turned 40 two weeks ago.

There's something about that number. It's not "old," but it's real. You start to understand in your bones (and joints and muscle aches) that this doesn't go on forever. The people you love will get older. Your parents, your siblings, your friends, your teammates, your players. You. Me.

Sitting in that coffee shop, I caught myself wondering: If this is how it ends … me alone with my coffee and my thoughts … would I really feel like I lived with people or mostly just near them? That's the coffee shop test.

On my 40th, I felt two things at the same time: gratitude for the ridiculous amount of connection I've already been given, and responsibility to not coast on that. To be more intentional with the time and people I have left.

All These Families I Get to Belong To

When I zoom out on the first 40 years, the thing I'm proudest of isn't a title, a job, a project, or a trophy. It's the fact that I've been allowed into so many families.

My own family: my wife, my daughter, my siblings, my parents, our messy, loud, beautiful crew.

My "work families" across Windsor, Milton, Michigan and Virginia. People I've built programs, projects and spent countless late-nights planning and strategizing with.

And then there are the families who handed me their kids and said, "Will you coach them?"

That last group gets me the most.

Because when a parent trusts you with their child, they're not just trusting you with skills, tactics, and game time. They're trusting you with car-ride conversations, with confidence, with tears after tough games, with big dreams and quiet fears.

That's not just "coach." That's extended family.

It looks like sidelines in the rain. Post-game huddles where you see eyes shining for a hundred different reasons. Road trips where the bus is loud and ridiculous and perfect. One-on-one meetings where a player finally says the thing they've been scared to say. Kids I've coached who now text me from college/university or new teams or new cities.

My life has been richest, by far, in these moments of being woven into other people's stories.

So when I say, "I hope I die first," what I really mean is: I hope I never get numb to how lucky I am to belong to all of this.

What I Actually Want to Die 

Here's the truth: I don't actually want to rush to the finish line.

I want certain things to die before I do.

The version of me that keeps everything in his head and nothing on paper. The version that says "We should grab coffee sometime" and never sends a calendar invite. The version that assumes there will always be more time to call, to visit, to show up. The version that lives in good intentions but weak follow-through.

Last month, I almost did that. I thought about a player I coached a few years ago. Had the thought, "I should reach out." Then I did what I usually do, mentally noted it and moved on. But halfway through my day, I stopped and sent them a text. Just said what made me think of them and our team, and wondered how they and their family were doing. We ended up on a call that evening that lasted almost an hour, re-connecting.

That's the difference. That's what I want to keep doing.

I don't want to be the guy who spends his last years alone in a coffee shop because he slowly drifted into isolation one missed message, one cancelled plan, one "I'll get to it later" at a time.

I want that version of me to die first.

Because the older I get, the more I realize: It's not just about how long we live. It's about how many stories we let our life touch while we're here.

Your Thursday Questions 

Who are the people that make you think, "If I lose you, everything changes"?

Where have you been living in your head instead of in your calendar? Who have you been meaning to call, text, visit, thank?

What's one small action you can take today to move from "good intentions" to "real time together"?

Maybe it's booking a coffee. Maybe it's sending a "thinking of you" voice note. Maybe it's telling your kid, your partner, your friend, your player: "I love being part of your life." 

The Real Thing

As for me? I still hope I die first, not because I want out, but because I want in.

All the way in. Fully present, fully invested, fully woven into the lives of the people and players and families I get to care for.

And if one day I'm back in that coffee shop, alone with my thoughts and a lukewarm drink, I hope I can look around and know: I was actually there. For the people who mattered. Not just thinking about it.

I hope that's what I actually did.