While most self-help cliches are mildly irritating, this one bothers the shit out of me:
“What do you want your epitaph to say?”
Why should I care? I’ll be dead anyways. I don’t expect to rise up in ghostly form to watch my funeral and give myself a pat on the back for being “so kind, humble, a hard worker, a father with a great sense of humor.”
One day, that epitaph will erode. My story and I will be forgotten.
What really matters is not the story of how I lived, but the fact that I was alive. That I made the most of my limited time. That I lived nobody else’s life but my own.