Pay Bills. Miss Life. Die.



My dad is in his seventies now and he says it out loud:

“I shouldn’t have worked so much.”
“I should’ve been home more.”

He says it with regret —
but also like someone who felt trapped.

A roof had to be paid for.
Food had to be on the table.

That’s what working-class America teaches you.

You work.
You sacrifice.
You don’t complain.
You handle it.

That’s love when survival is the priority.

And I don’t blame him.
He didn’t grow up with a normal life.
He didn’t grow up learning that time was something you protected.
He learned that providing was everything.

Sacrifice = love.
Long hours = love.
Being gone = love.

And in a way, it was.

But love is also time.
Love is also being there.
Love is also shared life.

My mom felt alone.

I was the one who spent time with her.
I took her places.
Restaurants.
Karaoke.
Music events.
Her belly dance and hula performances.
Her ukulele gigs.

I was her camera person.
Her partner in adventure.
Her “let’s go do something” person.

She once told me:

“If it isn’t for you, I would be alone.”

I hated hearing that.

Not because I didn’t love her —
but because I didn’t want to be her only person.

I was literally signing cards with my dad’s name on them so she wouldn’t feel ignored by him.
So it wouldn’t go unpassed by him.

Think about that.

I’m writing my dad’s name
so my mom won’t feel forgotten.

And I don’t blame him for that either.
He didn’t know those things mattered.
He didn’t grow up learning that connection mattered.
He grew up learning that survival did.

That’s the mentality a lot of people inherit:

Life is a bitch.
You pay bills.
Then you die.

Death and taxes.

That’s the script.

On my mom’s last day here, she was joking with me in the kitchen.
She told me my dad had said, “When we get old…”

And she laughed and said she told him:

“What do you mean when we get old?
We’re already old.”

Then she laughed again —
almost in disbelief.

Like he hadn’t even realized
he was already there.

That’s how fast time goes.

You think you’re getting ready for later
until later is already behind you.

I saw the same damn pattern with my friend, Dr. Perry.

He was an amazing doctor.
He treated half of South Texas.
Even after retirement.
Even while going blind.
Still helping people.

A servant’s heart.
No question.

And yeah, he made it count with God.
That matters.

But his connection with family was strained.
They weren’t on the same page
about him giving himself to everyone else.

The day he passed,
I had to accept it, throw on clothes,
and go straight to his service.

It was a whole church service.
Full.

And I know for a fact
that room was packed with people he helped.

And yet…

They asked if anyone wanted to speak.

One man went up.
A doctor he worked with.
He talked about research and cases.

Then he sat down.

“Anyone else?”

Silence.

Nothing.

It was my turn. My time.

I found out my friend was gone right before I walked into his funeral. I held myself together and let it out, because the last time I buried a friend, I stayed silent.

I wasn’t going to let it go down like that.

I talked about our friendship.
How it started.
How it played out.
How he was born on April Fool’s Day
and how we were always cutting up.

I talked about him as a man —
not just a doctor. 

He deserved that.

But here’s the part nobody wants to admit:

Sometimes…
you don’t even get the eulogy.

You can spend your whole life on the hamster wheel.
Work.
Provide.
Serve.
Be needed.
Be useful.

And when you’re gone,
there might only be one or two people
who actually knew you well enough
to stand up and speak.

Not because you didn’t matter.
But because you were busy everywhere
except where connection lives.

I’m not saying success is wrong.
I’m not saying careers are wrong.
I’m not saying paying bills is wrong.

A roof matters.
Food matters.

But balance matters too.

Because what does success get you
if it costs you your home life?

What does a career get you
if it costs you your marriage, your kids, your memories?

What does a good eulogy get you
if there’s nobody left
who really knows you?

Your regrets won’t be about what you did wrong.
They’ll be about what you didn’t do at all.

The trips you never took.
The time you didn’t spend.
The people you thought would always be there.
The life you kept postponing.

My dad says now
he should’ve been home more.

My mom realized they were already old
before he did.

Dr. Perry gave everything to service
and almost disappeared inside it.

And I’m one for learning from other people’s mistakes.

I will not make that one.

I won’t live like:
work is the whole story
and life is something that starts later.

I want:
a roof and memories
stability and presence
responsibility and experience

I want to take trips.
Even solo.
See the world.
Do the bucket-list shit.
Make my mark
without vanishing from my own life.

Stop chasing what’s going to make you regret living.

Life is a bitch if you let it be nothing but work.
Death and taxes don’t get to define the whole story.
And the hamster wheel only stops
when you decide to step off.

Time flies by.

Don’t miss it.




Related YouTube Video: https://youtu.be/I_3vxoJDD9k?si=iH8vYEXsmRSfh7Si

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

All Books Release Announcement!

Image
📚 All Books Now Available on Amazon My full collection of books is now available. Over the past month, I completed and released multiple volumes across connected series built from lived experience, structured reflection, and the question of how a human system forms under pressure. These books are not fiction, and they are not traditional self-help.   They are documentation — of survival, adaptation, grief, and meaning. --- 🔹 Operating Without a Manual This series explores what happens when life offers no blueprint. It focuses on early responsibility, instability, and learning how to build a life without guidance or safety nets. These volumes form the foundation of the collection — the environmental and developmental conditions that shaped everything that followed. Recommended reading order: first --- 🔹 I’m a Traumatized Human This series examines survival through a psychological and human lens. Rather than asking “what’s wrong,” it asks what happened — and how the mind and nerv...
Read more

Sunday Mourning

Image
  Mom's ukulele stylings in backdrop of the storm. Sunday — February 8, 2026 11:45 a.m. – 4:00 p.m. We were running late to Leilani’s memorial service at Reflection Church in Rockport, led by Pastor Kevin Saegert. Not late in the ordinary sense — not the kind of late that means missing the opening song or slipping quietly into a back pew. On the drive there my father mentioned the time, and I snapped. The words came out sharper than I intended: We’re not late. She’s already gone. There’s nothing to be late to now. Leilani is gone.  The second I said it, I felt the weight of what I meant. Death has a way of stripping language down to its bones. There is no schedule once someone has crossed that line. I had to reframe my thoughts in real time, sitting there in a car full of grief and Hawaiian-style button-ups, trying to honor someone we loved. Midway through the drive I asked my father if he had thought about bringing his ukulele. It was a big part of Leilani’s life. It was a ...
Read more

Death's Witness

Image
  I feel like death has been standing behind me lately. Not touching me. Not taking me. Just close enough that I can feel it breathing. Throughout my life, death has taken people I love — the closest people. And the strange thing is, I’ve almost always had a window before it happened. A visit. A moment. A strange, cosmic link. Like Chimmy Chanhrattana. He was my neighbor around the time my great-grandfather's house burned down. His family and mine were close. Our parents would visit each other, have dinners, take food over. He was my age. This was around junior high school. We didn’t stay close as adults, but he was always cool with me. One of those people I always appreciated. One day, years later, I was pumping gas in Ingleside and he pulled up to the stall next to mine. Out of nowhere. We caught up, talked about our families, laughed a little. It felt really good to see him after so long. Maybe a week later, he was gone. January 28, 2019. https://www.puenteandsons.com/...
Read more