I’m sorry to tell you this.
But after your funeral, most people won’t stay long.
They’ll cry.
They’ll post a picture.
Maybe share a memory.
Then move on.
That’s the truth.
And yet you spend your life living for them.
Biting your tongue so you don’t offend.
Carrying weight that was never yours.
Chasing approval from people who wouldn’t cross the street if you collapsed.
I don’t say this to be cruel.
I say it because you’re still alive.
And you’ve been waiting for permission.
As if some invisible hand will one day tap you on the shoulder and whisper:
“Now you may begin.”
Life doesn’t work that way.
It never has.
I once met a man at a bus stop.
He was old and bent like a crooked tree.
His hands trembled when he pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket.
He lit it, inhaled, and watched the smoke drift.
“You look like you’re headed somewhere,” he said.
“I am,” I said.
“At least I think I am.”
He chuckled.
“That’s what I thought when I was your age.
Always headed somewhere.
Never here.
Never now.”
He tapped ash onto the pavement.
Then he said something that I’ve carried ever since:
“Life doesn’t start when you decide to live.
It’s been happening all along.
The only question is when you’ll stop missing it.”
That night I couldn’t sleep.
I kept thinking about what he’d said.
I saw my own life stretched behind me like a road half-driven.
All the moments I’d postponed.
All the days I’d waited to feel ready.
I’d lived like an understudy waiting to be called to stage.
Learning the lines.
Rehearsing the steps.
Telling myself that one day the curtain would rise and I’d step into my real life.
But the curtain never rose.
Because the stage was already mine.
I’d been standing on it the whole time.
You know what they don’t tell you?
No one’s coming.
No one’s handing you a script.
No one’s giving you permission.
You can keep waiting.
For the perfect day.
The right partner.
More money.
Less fear.
Or you can step into the daylight as you are, bruised and unfinished, and start.
You’ll stumble.
You’ll lose people.
Some will whisper.
Some will leave.
But you will be alive.
And that is worth everything.
I remember a woman from my neighborhood when I was a kid.
Her name was Eleanor.
She used to sit on her porch in the evenings, rocking in a faded chair.
She’d wave at me as I passed on my bike.
She worked two jobs and raised four children alone.
She never went on vacation.
Never bought herself anything nice.
“She’s waiting for her ship to come in,” my mother once said.
One summer, Eleanor died in her sleep.
No ship.
No time.
No second act.
I rode by her empty porch after the funeral and felt a strange heaviness in my chest.
Even as a boy I understood:
She had waited her whole life to start living.
And now it was over.
We’re taught early to defer ourselves.
Be polite.
Be agreeable.
Fit in.
Don’t ruffle feathers.
Don’t be selfish.
And before you know it, you’re grown and still asking for permission.
You measure yourself by what others think.
You shrink to fit their expectations.
You tell yourself it’s loyalty, duty, humility.
But sometimes it’s fear.
Sometimes it’s self-erasure.
Here’s the quiet truth:
You are not obligated to abandon yourself for people who will forget you.
📚 All of my stories began on Substack. Now, The Quiet Miracle and Earned, Not Given are here — new releases, available now on Amazon. ✨
Think about it.
You’re scrolling right now.
Someone you loved died last year.
You cried, posted a picture, shared a memory.
Then you moved on.
We all do.
Life keeps moving.
It’s not cruel.
It’s just real.
So why spend your days for the applause of a crowd that will vanish?
Why contort yourself for faces that won’t remember you?
Live for you.
Because in the end, you’re all you’ve got.
This is not an invitation to be reckless.
It’s an invitation to be honest.
To live according to the pulse that beats in your own chest.
To stop apologizing for existing.
Take the trip.
Say the words.
Write the book.
Plant the tree.
Call the friend.
Do it now.
Not when you’re ready.
Not when it’s perfect.
Now.
Because now is all you’ve ever had.
I learned this again at a funeral last winter.
A man I’d known for years died suddenly.
The service was small.
After the eulogies, people drifted to their cars.
They checked their phones.
They whispered about lunch.
Within a week, his name had faded from conversation.
Within a month, his desk at work was cleaned out, a new person sitting there.
That’s life.
It moves on.
It has to.
But watching it happen shook me.
I thought of all the things he’d told me he wanted to do “someday.”
Someday never came.
You can spend your years chasing the approval of strangers.
You can build a life on their expectations.
And when you’re gone, they’ll scroll past your photo like any other post.
Or you can decide—today—that you’re done with that.
That you’ll live as if your life is your own.
Because it is.
When you do, something shifts.
Colors sharpen.
Time slows.
You taste your coffee.
You feel the wind on your face.
You speak your truth without trembling.
You stop rehearsing.
You start living.
I think about that man at the bus stop sometimes.
I never saw him again.
Maybe he’s gone now.
But his words echo:
“Life doesn’t start when you decide to live.
It’s been happening all along.
The only question is when you’ll stop missing it.”
That’s the question I leave with you.
Not as a lecture.
As an offering.
Stop missing it.
Stop waiting.
Stop trading your hours for the comfort of the crowd.
Live.
Not for applause.
Not for a legacy.
Not for the curated memory on someone else’s feed.
Live because you’re here.
Live because you’re breathing.
Live because you can.
Here’s how it looks in practice.
You will have to disappoint people.
You will have to risk being misunderstood.
You will have to say no.
You will have to stand alone.
And you will discover that you don’t die from it.
You’ll discover that on the other side of fear is freedom.
This is the hidden doorway.
You walk through it alone.
But once you do, the world opens.
You find yourself laughing at things that used to terrify you.
You find yourself unshaken by opinions.
You find yourself lighter.
Not because life got easier.
Because you stopped living it for them.
One last story.
A friend of mine had a heart attack at forty-eight.
He survived.
I visited him in the hospital.
“I almost died,” he said.
“I kept thinking about all the things I never did because I was waiting.
Waiting to feel ready.
Waiting for someone to tell me it was okay.
I almost died waiting.”
He squeezed my hand.
“Don’t wait,” he said.
“Don’t you dare.”
This is what I’m trying to tell you.
No one’s keeping score.
No one’s holding the keys.
You are not late.
You are not early.
You are exactly here.
So go live your life.
Not someday.
Now.
Live like the stage is already yours.
Because it is.
Live like the curtain has already risen.
Because it has.
Stop wasting your one life on crowds that vanish.
Stop living for people who won’t stay long after your funeral.
Take back your breath.
Take back your time.
Take back your heart.
You only get one life.
Live for you.
Because in the end, you’re all you’ve got.
And that is enough.
This is your permission slip, if you need one.
This is the tap on the shoulder.
This is the whisper:
Now you may begin.
- Rinaldo
Enjoyed this? Fuel me ☕……………
What began as daily reflections on Substack has grown into full books. You can now find them on Amazon, Remi’s Journey, Rediscovering Vancouver, and Dancing Letters.
Inspiration for This Story.
We spend so much of life waiting—waiting to be ready, waiting for approval, waiting for the perfect moment that never comes. The truth is, life doesn’t wait. It’s already happening, passing through our hands while we look the other way. This story is a reminder that most people move on after we’re gone, and that’s not meant to be cruel—it’s meant to free us. Free us from living for others, from holding our breath, from postponing our own existence. The inspiration here is simple: stop waiting. Begin now. Live fully, honestly, and unapologetically, because this is your one life.
—John Rinaldo
Subscribe to The Positive Pen on Substack for daily reflections and uplifting tales that brighten your week.
💯
That’s why we sold up, bought a motorhome. Enjoying the moments. Look, there are “those” moments. But you move on. Live for now. Thanks for the reminder.