Last summer, I asked my best friend to speak at my funeral, which hopefully won’t happen anytime soon. At the time, I was reading David Brook’s book, The Road to Character, in which he explains the difference between "résumé virtues," those connected with wealth, fame, status, and "eulogy virtues," the deeper qualities at the core of who we are. His book made me think about mortality, living virtuosly, and inevitably my eulogy. I wondered: Am I living true to my virtues? How do I want to be remembered?

My friend was surprised with my question and laughed nervously. “I know it’s weird,” I said, “But I’m serious. Will you?” I insisted. “Of course,” she agreed playing along, “I’d be happy to!” I’m not sure why, but I felt relieved. Something about our agreement celebrated our friendship and also gave death an existential wink. I remember thinking, “Hey, I can’t cheat the system, but why not have fun with it?” Strangely, this hypothetical agreement made me feel accountable and renewed my commitment to my values. Whenever I think about it, I'm more mindful of how I show up in my life, both with my friend, and with everyone else I love.

I thought about this story because my dad turned 81 last month. He died of lung cancer 12 years ago, a profound turning point in my life. My father was a visionary, a self-taught philosopher, and an interpreter of life. He taught me about intellect, intuition, emotion, and spirit long before neuroscience could explain them. Early on, he invited me to partake in life’s big conversations, you know, the ones every teenager avoids. Who are you? What do you want in life? What do you love? Back then, a part of me was intrigued. Today, I appreciate that he showed me where and how to approach wisdom. “Inside,” he would often tell my sisters and I, “always look for the truth inside of yourself.” My dad wasn’t perfect, but I loved his innate ability to be present, listen deeply, question, and imagine. Losing him reframed my life.

In her recent commencement address at UC Berkeley, Facebook COO, Sheryl Sandberg also focused her emotional remarks on death, not life, as a powerful teacher. Through the tragic loss of her husband, she experienced “hope, strength, and the light within.” She acknowledged that out of her loss grew a deeper understanding and awareness of what it means to be alive. “You will be defined not just by what you achieve,” she said, “but by how you survive.”

And that’s the thing…how we survive matters because even though we straddle between this world and the next, we can choose how we show up in our story each and every day. “There is a world of difference between ‘not being dead’ and ‘being alive,’” writes well-known psychotherapist and author Esther Perel, whose parents survived the Holocaust and inspired her life's work. She explains that their response to this horrific experience was “…to charge at life with a vengeance and to make the most of each day. They both felt that they had been granted a unique gift: living life again.”

If you think of life as a series of losses, each moment we're alive is another chance to practice living fully again. The way I see it, death is a question of time, and it’s also a perspective on living, a humbling reminder that no matter who we are and what we do, our stories all have a beginning, middle, and end. Yes, the concept is daunting and also transformative if it inspires us to live intentionally and to author the life we want. “Death is our friend,” wrote Czech poet and novelist, Rainer Maria Rilke, “precisely because it brings us into absolute and passionate presence with all that is here, that is natural, that is love.”

I see life and death as reflections of the paradoxical tension between being and doing. On the one hand, as Brooks explains in his book, we are wired to achieve and succeed. We are here, "to do". On the other, we yearn for much more: love, truth, connection, purpose, meaning, fulfillment, and legacy. We are here, "to be". Intuitively, we know that while our bodies are mortal, certain aspects of our human experience will survive us. So, in a way, we are at once story makers and main characters in our evolving narrative. We practice life and live it at the same time. Each moment is the opening act or final scene of a performance we script, lead, direct, star in and, hopefully, reflect on. Grappling with our mortality gives us pause and puts things in perspective. It reminds us that how we live matters and that when we connect with the essence of who we are, our values, and dreams, we flavor our story with unique hand-picked spices.

For a chunk of my life, I forgot about being and was mostly focused on doing. I lived for the future and planned for it diligently. I had the longest, most organized to-do list that included cute little checkmark boxes I drew for completed items. I was on a frantic race against life. The more checkmarks I had on my list the more accomplished I felt. I never had enough time. My mind and heart were wherever my body wasn't. My relationships suffered. I was exhausted and didn't understand why, yet the thought of doing less and "being" more, just didn't appeal. Who had time for that? If things spiraled out of hand, because sometimes they did, I would call my dad and just hearing his voice would remind me to pause, breathe, and observe what was going on. I wasn't ready to pivot yet, but slowly, very s-l-o-w-l-y I started noticing that what "really" mattered was never on my list of things to do.

In the months following his funeral, a thick fog of deafening, painful silence closed in on me. Time came to a screeching halt. My senses were numb and my heart went into overdrive. I felt raw and alive like I had never experienced before. When the fog finally lifted it was replaced with a new light of awareness and gratitude. I could see a broader picture and also what I was creating with my doing: Basically, a fast-moving caricature of my life. Grief left me heart-broken and fully committed to try living, each day, with absolute presence, appreciation, and intention.

In my coaching practice, I work with accomplished people who also want to create a life of meaning, purpose, and fulfillment. Coaching helps them activate a different part of their brain while reconnecting them to their internal resources, their inner truth. Often, I challenge clients to think expansively by asking powerful, deep questions that get to the heart of the matter. Doing so helps them pause, notice, and become mindful of their life choices, experiences, and outcomes.

One of my favorite coaching questions is: In your wildest dreams, what would you like to bring forth and leave behind? To answer it, clients must step into a broader mind space of curiosity, dreams, inspiration, creativity and most important, wholeness. From that viewpoint, they see the pieces and the whole and can tap into their own wisdom and insights. I'm repeatedly amazed at how, for some, these exercises can generate increased motivation and a desire to dive in.

The neuroscience behind this work is pretty fascinating too. It acknowledges that the heart, body, and mind all have a natural bias towards something called integration. To put it simply, this is basically our hard-wired, biological desire to connect, find meaning, and achieve harmony and balance. Integration happens when we can see ourselves “doing” (left brain) and “being” (right brain) and there is cohesion between who we are and what we do. Best part: it generates a feeling of wholeness in our body, improves our sense of well-being, and strengthens our resilience. (That's why mind-body practices like yoga, meditation, and even prayer can feel SO good all over!)

In life and death, my father taught me to cherish each moment as a precious gift and an existential mystery. He dared me to wrestle with my truth, especially when doing so challenged me to the core. Today, his memories are blessings that sprinkle my life with wisdom and meaning. I grow my dad's legacy by living "with a vengeance" and, in doing so, I author a life story I hope will be worthy of my own children's memories.

To life!
Jessika