I sit in my chair, 7 miles above the Earth, soaring through the troposphere at 557 miles per hour. I can’t help but laugh. This is how I’ve lived my entire adult life—at full throttle, high and fast. Since childhood, I’ve carried a deep-seated conviction that I’d meet my end at 36.
Despite being a man, I’ve always felt blessed and burdened with what I call a strong woman’s intuition. As a child, I was haunted by what I thought were random visions—fragments of tomorrow buried in my mind. What I dismissed as mere dreams were actually glimpses of my future. If you think knowing your future would be a gift, let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
By age ten, I had my first premonition of death. Though I lacked specifics, I was certain I wouldn’t see my 37th birthday. While most would dismiss such feelings, I couldn’t ignore them. My dreams had a habit of coming true, and I learned not to dismiss anything.
As I grew, these visions became rare, and I yearned for them to cease so I could live a normal life. I wanted my dreams to remain just that—dreams. Yet, the certainty of my impending death left a mark, driving me to adopt a “live fast, die young” mentality. I lived with the pedal to the metal, chasing intensity and abandoning the mundane trappings of life—savings, healthy relationships, and stability.
“You can’t take it with you, Ron,” became my mantra. I’d occasionally slow down to refuel but soon sped off again, heedless of the world around me. This reckless attitude brought accomplishments but also led me into perilous situations. It’s a miracle I’ve never been arrested or needed resuscitation.
A few years ago, I shared my conviction with someone who responded, “What if you don’t fucking die?” I was stunned. I’d never considered that maybe I was wrong.
This year, my 36th, has been consumed by a constant dread: Will today be the day I crash my car? Will I collapse in the bread aisle at Kroger? What will my final thoughts be? It’s been a wretched way to live.
Two days ago, in a cabin in Jasper, Alberta, Canada, I watched the flames dance in the fireplace. The fire seemed to beckon me to step outside, don a winter hat, and walk in the cold rain. I obeyed, head down, eyes fixed on the slippery pavement. Suddenly, an elk, towering at 7 feet with antlers as wide as a truck, bolted in front of me. Moments later, two resort employees, armed with brooms, mops, and flashlights, chased the elk, their shock palpable as I remained unharmed.
In that surreal moment, I felt a profound sadness. It was as if the universe was saying, “Ron, you’re like this elk.” I wept deeply, recognizing the perfect metaphor for my existence. Like the elk, I’ve been running from things, caught between my natural instincts and the demands of others. I’ve felt like a captive, chased by expectations and fears.
It was ironic to see such a formidable creature fleeing from mere janitorial tools. In my life, the sources of my anxiety often seem trivial in hindsight, yet in the heat of the moment, they’re overwhelming. Unlike the elk, though, I’m tired of being driven by fear. I’m done pretending and living by others’ rules. I need to create, to be true to myself, and I don’t care about the cost.
At that intersection with the elk, I metaphorically died five days before my 37th birthday. My childhood vision of death wasn’t physical—it was a shedding of the old self.
It’s time to embrace my true self. It’s time to truly live and love. And the only way to do that is to die to the person I was. For the first time, I’m excited and no longer afraid, all because I’ve experienced this symbolic death. And you know what? Dying felt amazing.