Call Them While You Can

We tell ourselves there will always be another phone call, another Sunday, another Christmas — right up until the moment there isn't.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the things we leave unsaid.

Not because we don't mean them. Not because we don't care. But because somewhere along the way, we convince ourselves there's always going to be another opportunity. Another Sunday afternoon. Another phone call. Another Christmas. Another chance to tell somebody how much they mean to us.

And life has a funny way of letting us believe that, right up until the moment it doesn't.

The Promise of Tomorrow

I think about the people who've come and gone throughout my life. Some left quietly, without much explanation. Some walked away after words were exchanged that neither of us could ever take back. Others simply drifted away, the way people sometimes do when life starts pulling them in different directions. And then there are the people we still love, but somehow never seem to find the time to call.

We tell ourselves we'll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow, when work slows down. Tomorrow, when we're feeling better. Tomorrow, when we've figured out exactly what we want to say.

But tomorrow is a strange little promise, isn't it? We make it to ourselves every day, even though none of us has ever been guaranteed one.

Some Things You Can't Rebuild

I've spent a lot of my life building things. Houses, businesses, dreams, and occasionally a pretty spectacular mess that I had to figure out how to clean up. I've learned that almost anything can be rebuilt if you're willing to put in the work. A house can be repaired. A business can be started again. A dream can take on an entirely different shape and somehow become even more beautiful than the one you originally imagined.

But there are some things you can't rebuild.

You can't go back and have dinner with somebody who isn't here anymore. You can't return to a summer afternoon from twenty years ago and appreciate it the way you wish you had. You can't reach through time and tell a younger version of yourself to stop worrying about things that never really mattered.

And you certainly can't recover every opportunity you had to love somebody a little better.

There are people in my life I wish I'd called more often. People I wish I'd listened to a little longer. People I wish I'd hugged a little tighter before we said goodbye, because I didn't realize that goodbye would eventually become a memory instead of a temporary distance.

And there are conversations I wish I could have one more time.

Not necessarily to change anything. Not to reopen old wounds or rewrite the ending of a story that has already been told. Sometimes I just wish I could sit across from somebody again, look them in the eyes, and tell them that despite everything, the good moments still mattered to me. Because they did.

The People We Know the Least About

I think that's one of the hardest things about growing older. You begin to understand that life isn't always divided neatly into good people and bad people, happy endings and sad ones, right decisions and wrong ones. Sometimes people love each other and still hurt each other. Sometimes two people can share something genuinely beautiful and still find themselves walking in opposite directions.

And sometimes the people who meant the most to us become the people we know the least about.

It's a strange feeling, isn't it? To know the sound of somebody's laughter, the way they take their coffee, the little things that make them smile, and then one day realize you have no idea how their Tuesday went.

I don't think every relationship is supposed to last forever. Some endings are necessary. Some distances are healthy. And sometimes loving somebody means accepting that your lives are no longer meant to travel the same road.

But I do believe we should be more generous with the love we still have an opportunity to give.

What the Ocean Reminds Me

Living here in Hawaiʻi has given me a different appreciation for time. Maybe it's the ocean. Maybe it's the sunsets. Maybe it's simply being thousands of miles away from people and places that once made up my everyday life.

There are evenings when I'll stand looking out over the water, watching the sun slowly disappear beneath the horizon, and think about how extraordinary it is that the world keeps turning regardless of what's happening in our hearts. Somewhere, a baby is taking its first breath. Somewhere, two people are falling in love. Somewhere, a family is gathering around a dinner table, laughing about something they'll probably forget by morning.

And somewhere, somebody is wishing they had just one more afternoon with someone they loved.

The ocean doesn't know the difference. The sun sets just the same.

Perhaps that's why those quiet moments affect me so deeply. They remind me that while the world may be enormous, the things that make our lives meaningful are often incredibly small.

A familiar voice on the phone. A handwritten note. Somebody remembering your birthday. A friend checking in when you've gone unusually quiet. A person who knows you've made mistakes and loves you enough to believe you're still capable of becoming somebody better.

Those are the things that stay with us. Not the applause. Not the accomplishments. Not the number of people who know our names. It's the people who know our hearts.

We Don't Always Know How Much We Matter

I've had seasons in my life when I was surrounded by people and still felt completely alone. I've also had moments when one unexpected message from somebody made an otherwise difficult day feel a little more bearable. And that has taught me something.

We don't always know how much we mean to somebody.

We don't know whether the conversation we barely remember was the one that gave them the courage to keep going. We don't know whether the kind words we spoke in passing were the first kind words they'd heard in weeks. We don't know whether somebody is sitting somewhere right now, thinking about us and wishing they knew how to reach out.

I receive messages from people who listen to my music, and sometimes their stories leave me sitting quietly for a long time afterward. People tell me about heartbreak, loss, addiction, second chances, and the moments when they weren't sure how they were going to make it through another day.

And almost every story, no matter how different, seems to come back to the same thing: we all want to know that we matter to somebody. That our absence would be noticed. That somebody would miss our laugh, remember our stories, or wonder whether we made it home safely.

It's such a simple thing, really. To be loved. To be remembered. To feel like there's a place in this enormous world where you belong. And yet we spend so much of our lives chasing things that will never love us back.

The Moments We Walk Right Past

We chase success. We chase recognition. We chase the next opportunity, the next accomplishment, the next version of ourselves that we imagine will finally make us happy. There's nothing wrong with having dreams. Lord knows I've spent most of my life chasing a few of my own.

But I wonder sometimes how many beautiful moments we've walked right past because we were so focused on getting somewhere else. How many conversations did we rush because we had something more important to do? How many sunsets did we miss because we were staring at a screen? How many times did somebody say, "I love you," and we answered without really stopping to appreciate what an extraordinary gift those words are?

I think about my daughter and how quickly the years have passed. There was a time when tomorrow seemed impossibly far away, when childhood felt like something that would last forever. And then one day you look around and realize that the little moments you thought were ordinary have become the memories you'd give almost anything to experience again.

That's what time does. It takes the everyday things and quietly turns them into treasures. And it rarely tells us when we're experiencing something for the last time.

The last time somebody calls you just to talk. The last time you sit together around a holiday table. The last time you hear a familiar voice say your name. We don't recognize those moments when they're happening. We treat them like any other Tuesday, any other Sunday, any other ordinary afternoon. Only later do we understand what they were worth.

Love Them While You Can

I don't write any of this because I think we should spend our lives afraid of losing the people we love. Quite the opposite. I think we should spend our lives loving them while we can.

Tell your friends you appreciate them. Tell your children how proud you are of them. Tell the people who've stood beside you through the worst chapters of your life that you haven't forgotten what they did.

And if there's somebody you haven't spoken to in a while, somebody whose name keeps crossing your mind, maybe today is a good day to reach out.

Not every broken relationship needs to be reopened. Not every person belongs back in your life. There is wisdom in knowing the difference between forgiveness and allowing yourself to be hurt again. But where love is still welcome, where the door is still open, where a simple conversation might bring somebody a little joy — why wait?

You don't need a perfectly written message. You don't need a special occasion. You don't even need a reason beyond the fact that somebody crossed your mind and you wanted them to know.

Sometimes three little words are enough. "I miss you." "I'm proud of you." "I love you." Or perhaps the simplest and most beautiful words of all: "I was thinking about you."

"I was thinking about you."

What I Hope I Remember

I have no idea what the next chapter of my life will look like. If the last forty-one years have taught me anything, it's that life rarely follows the plans we make for it. There will be surprises. There will be disappointments. There will be moments that take my breath away and others that make me wonder how I'm going to catch it again.

But I hope that somewhere in the middle of all of it, I remember to slow down. I hope I remember that success means very little if there's nobody to share it with. I hope I remember to answer the phone, to listen a little longer, to forgive where I can, and to say the things that matter while there's still time to say them.

Because one day, when all the noise has settled and the things we worked so hard to achieve have become nothing more than stories, I don't think we'll be wishing we'd spent another hour at work or another evening worrying about what strangers thought of us.

I think we'll wish we'd stayed a little longer at the dinner table. Taken one more photograph. Given one more hug. Made one more phone call. And told the people we loved just how much they meant to us.

If Somebody Crossed Your Mind

So if somebody crossed your mind while you were reading this, maybe there's a reason. Maybe it's somebody you haven't talked to in years. Maybe it's a friend who always seems to be the one checking on everybody else. Maybe it's someone sitting in the next room who has no idea how much you appreciate them.

Whoever it is, don't assume they already know. Tell them.

Because life moves quickly, and the years have a way of slipping through our fingers like sand. And sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person isn't something wrapped in a box or tied with a ribbon. Sometimes it's simply the reassurance that in a world full of billions of people, they are not forgotten. They are loved. They matter. And somebody, somewhere, is grateful they're here.

Call them while you can. One day, you may be very glad you did.

Much love,

Topher Ryan

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