The Calculus of Life
A meditation on loss, love, and the math that truly matters
The Art of Becoming is about turning obstacles into opportunities. Drawing from philosophy, resilience, and real-life experiences, I share lessons on navigating adversity, cultivating wisdom, and living with purpose. Because in the end, life isn’t about avoiding hardship—it’s about becoming someone who thrives in it.
We won’t always have the answers, but we can search for them together.
Today, we remember what’s important.
I hope you’ll join me.
There is a simple kind of math to life, a calculus of addition and subtraction with the occasional differentiation and integration problem.
We add a friend or lose one.
We differentiate our résumés from other candidates or tell our clients the benefits of choosing our business model over the competition.
Our children integrate into the social structure at their new school. Or they don’t, and we worry they will stay in the basement playing video games until they’re forty.
The calculus isn’t complicated, but finding solutions to our challenges, juggling our wants and needs, and honoring our commitments to friends and family, community, and job is when life becomes overwhelming.
This unique sort of math hounds our motives. It weighs the cost of our relationships at work, in cities, and with families. It is easy to add more stuff. Life becomes more complicated when things are purposely and maliciously cut from our lives. Or when we lose those we care about.
When we waste our time in frivolity and matters of lesser consequence, pangs of regret shoot through our stomachs, and that’s when we try to bargain for more days and minutes. Even Lucius Annaeus Seneca, the Stoic philosopher, wanted more time. To paraphrase Richard III in Shakespeare’s play:
Time. Time. My kingdom for more time.
Our lives are frail, limited, and final. In many ways, it is an exercise in cause and effect, of creating plans to fill up our bucket list, of loves found and lost, of regret begetting more regret.
Sometimes in the midst of all of life’s crap, we win. But only sometimes.
In trying to learn life’s calculus, to make the most of each day’s equation, we forget that we may not be here tomorrow. And worse, we take for granted that the people we love may leave us forever.
Every day, I don’t ask for more time to travel, or to make more money, or write a post that will go viral. I beg whoever or whatever, for one more day with my daughters, to hold my wife one more time, and to laugh with my friends.
Just one more day to be with anyone I love. And loves me.
But I have to remember to cry out to the universe, God, Allah, Buddha, or whoever is listening, to please give me one more day.
“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.” —Ecclesiastes 9:10
Sometimes the universe isn’t listening. But there are days, I’m ashamed to say, I forget to ask. Sometimes, I am not working with all my might.
Don’t Forget to Say Goodbye On Your Last Day
In life’s cruel mathematics, certain moments, things, and people will mean more to us in our final days than any promotion, climbing Mount Everest, 10 million followers on Instagram, or writing a bestseller.
We live by a hierarchy, a totem pole of what or who is more important. And for life’s more critical moments or people that matter most, we are willing to sacrifice certain parts of ourselves and our lives. The level of sacrifice grows in direct proportion to the significance of the person or event. For example, I care about the people who read my blog, so writing this post means more to me than watching a Sunday night movie.
The Bible in Genesis 3:19 reminds us of our frailty and the transience of our lives:
Remember You Are Dust and Will Return to Dust
Life is simple and less complex when only your goals matter and only your life is at stake. But what happens when someone tells you: Remember, your daughter, husband, wife, brother, or friend will turn to dust before you.
What then?
We live only so many moments. Mastering life is difficult and made more complex when we partner with others trying to do the same.
Remembering that they, too, must die is as awkward to read as it is to write. But it is a truth we all live by, but rarely confront. That is, until it is too late.
The world reminds us to be selfish, as we discover when we see anything posted by a Kardashian. We are constantly bombarded by images, texts, and podcasts to live our best lives. To conquer our goals. Develop an app that will change the way we buy dog food. To make your billions. Travel around the world for two years. Write that bestseller. Do what makes you a better you. Be selfish, the world tells us.
Admittedly, I even told you to fill up your bucket list. To remember, you only have so much time to live. And when you die, you can’t take anything with you except your memories. It’s hard to admit, even I remind you to be selfish.
But that selfishness ends when we remember our mortality, but more importantly, we contemplate the death of our family and friends. Life is made more special with the people we meet, when we make love with our partner, laugh with a friend, forgive a brother, and serve our community. As we create these memories, we remember that not only will we die, but so will the people we love.
When you kiss your child, say to yourself: ‘Tomorrow you may be dead.’ But do it with no gloom, but in a light heart, and if fate wills, let it be so.” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 11.34
This contemplation is the Stoic practice of memento mori — remembering your mortality. It wasn’t meant to foster despair, but to cultivate gratitude for the present moment. Instead of clinging to our attachments and relationships with fear, we should appreciate what we have while we have it and accept loss as part of nature’s order.
We could leave right now, and as Marcus Aurelius admonishes, let that determine what we say and do.
Before it is too late, tell your partner, child, friend, neighbor, or parent you love them. Come out to your family. Live your truth. Adopt a child. Foster a dog from your local animal shelter. Record your baby laughing or film your parents holding her for the first time. Make love in the rain. Live your life fully, but do it with someone you would sacrifice everything for.
There are only so many opportunities to fall in love, to make friends, or to make a difference. Don’t waste your life waiting for the best time to live.
Too often, we forget this. Not once or twice. But every day.
We rush through mornings, skip conversations, dismiss hugs, or let our tempers flare because we assume there will be another chance. We assume we’ll get to say sorry. Or thank you. Or I love you. We act as if there will always be a later.
But later is the greatest lie we tell ourselves.
One day, the math runs out. No more friends or moments to add. No more integration into a new church or mosque. Just subtraction. Just loss.
A heartbeat goes quiet. A chair sits empty. A text goes unanswered. Your wife’s voice becomes a memory.
And what is left behind? The words you never said. Or the ones you did and would give the last years of your life to take back. Sometimes it’s the love we gave. Or withheld.
The Stoics, the Bible, the Koran, and Torah, every ancient text reminds us to prepare for this—not with fear, but with reverence. Because when you remember you must die, you remember how to live. And when you remember that the people you love must die, you learn how to love.
So say what needs to be said. Do what must be done. But do it now.
Kiss your daughter goodnight like it’s the last time. Forgive your brother. Call your friend back. Hold your wife’s hand a moment longer. Not because anything will happen. But because eventually something will. And then won’t ever again.
In life’s final accounting, what will matter most won’t be your net worth, your status, or your follower count. Or the stuff you collect. It will be whether you were kind. Whether you showed up. Whether you loved without asking for anything in return. Whether you said goodbye when you still had the chance.
That’s the math that matters.
And if today is not your last day, let it be the day you live as if it could be.
Thanks for reading. Do the math that matters.
Love to you and yours,
Michael
