Taking His Sweet Time
“How you live is how you die.”
— Pema Chödrön
I’m sitting beside a loved one who is days from making his transition, watching the quiet rise and fall of his breath.
Pema Chödrön wrote these words so beautifully, and right now I am witnessing them front and center.
Mike (my children’s uncle and a dear friend) has always been slow moving. As his brother says it so perfectly, “he never beat to the same western hemisphere rhythm.” He was always moving through life at his own pace. Sometimes it frustrated people (how slowly he moved through the world) but for others it was deeply inspiring.
We always joked that if Mike said he was coming to visit on Tuesday for lunch, he might not show up until Wednesday for dinner.
And yet most of us came to accept that as simply part of him, and eventually to love it.
Mike spent much of his adult life living in Indonesia, where he could truly embrace his natural rhythm - surfing daily and following the tides.
Tuning into his own vessel - stretching, meditating, eating healthy whole foods, Indonesian cigarettes, and enjoying life to the fullest.
A simple life for a simple man.
A brilliant man, if you ask me.
He was a quiet inspiration to many of us who live inside the daily grind while secretly longing for more presence, more simplicity, and a slower pace.
Watching Mike navigate a terminal illness from the moment of diagnosis was also deeply inspiring. I’m sure he carried a heavy emotional load knowing what this news meant for his elderly parents, but he never showed it. Not once did he complain.
“I’ve lived a full life, Lisa,” he told me soon after his diagnosis.
Even then, he carried a kind of go-with-the-flow acceptance. That was simply who he was.
He did choose to pursue some treatment, but it was a conscious decision - one made largely for his mom. Like any mother, she could hardly bear the news. And so Mike did what he could for her.
“I wonder how heavy his backpack really was,” his brother said quietly as we sat beside Mike in those final days.
Mike seemed to live in two worlds throughout his life - one where he was far away, living freely and fully for himself, and another where he returned home and showed up for the people who loved him.
As Mike began to decline, he slowly lost some of his speech in the beginning. But even then he never complained and never seemed to show signs of physical or emotional pain. He went along with the appointments, the visits, the rhythms of treatment, and continued living as best he could.
Whenever someone asked how he was feeling, he would usually say the same thing: “I’m OK.”
Always with a smile. Always lighthearted. Always with that gentle positive energy that was so distinctly Mike.
He is OK - despite everything he’s going through?
We may never know if that was fully true.
But what an inspiration nonetheless.
“I’ve lived a full life cycle. I’m good,” he told me again recently.
Even while carrying a terminal diagnosis, Mike spent much of his time reassuring the people around him that he was okay. The man facing death comforting everyone else.
Watching Mike now in these final days does not look very different from watching him live his life.
He seems comfortable. Peaceful. Not agitated. Not complaining.
It’s almost as if he was practicing his whole life for this moment.
For this phase.
Something else has dawned on me too.
When Mike entered hospice, many of us assumed things would move quickly. He seemed so ready. But instead, he seems to be taking his sweet time.
He appears to be slowly working through whatever remains - calmly and peacefully, the way he always moved through life.
And of course, when I realized this, it made perfect sense.
Of course Mike would take his time.
Of course he would linger gently in this liminal space between worlds.
He already outlived the prognosis he was given - sixteen months to maybe two and a half years.
But how could we have expected anything different?
Mike has always shown us exactly how he moves through the world.
Slow.
Peaceful.
Taking his sweet time.
Or as his brother, friends, and cousins have always lovingly said - lagging.
What a sweet soul.
May he rest in peace knowing how many lives he touched and how much he taught the rest of us about what truly matters.
A humble, loving man.
A brother to many.
Loved by all.
Pure love in human form, on his beautiful transition home.
Sitting beside someone in their final days has a way of revealing what truly matters.
The pace we move through the world.
The way we care for our bodies.
The love we offer the people around us.
The peace we make with our own lives.
Watching Mike now, it’s hard not to feel that his life prepared him well for this moment. The same rhythm that guided him through the waves, through distant countries, through friendships and family - that same rhythm seems to be carrying him now.
Slow.
Peaceful.
Unhurried.
Perhaps there is wisdom in that.
Perhaps the way we live really does shape the way we leave 🤍
P.S. Since writing this last week, Mike passed away peacefully at home on March 15, 2026 at 4:00 a.m. After 12 days on hospice, surrounded by family, friends, visits, cuddles, and so much love, his body finally completed its long work. He had been living with glioblastoma for nearly three years.
It was an honor to witness the care, tenderness, and devotion of the people who loved him most.
Some people rush through life. Mike never did.
Sitting beside someone in their final days can be deeply meaningful, and it can also ask a lot of our nervous systems.
I recently recorded a short video sharing a few gentle ways to support your nervous system if you’re visiting or caring for someone who is approaching the end of life.
If you’re navigating something like this right now, I hope it offers you a little steadiness and care.
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