What If This Was Your Last Christmas?

Hey there,

I want you to imagine something for a minute.

What if this was your last Christmas?

Not in some distant, theoretical way. But real. What if you knew, with absolute certainty, that you wouldn't be here next year?

How would that change tonight?

Would you still be on your phone scrolling through everyone else's holiday posts?

Would you still be stressing about the gifts you didn't get or the plans that fell through?

Would you still be annoyed at your family for asking the same questions they always ask?

Or would everything suddenly become crystal clear?

What Changes When You Remember

Here's what I've learned about memento mori—remember you will die.

It's not morbid. It's not depressing.

It's the most clarifying question you can ask yourself.

Because when you realize time is limited, all the noise disappears. All the petty stuff. All the things you thought mattered.

And what's left is simple: the people you love and the moments you're in.

That's it.

The Stoics practiced this daily. Marcus Aurelius, one of the most powerful men in history, wrote to himself every morning: "You could leave life right now."

Not to be afraid. But to be awake. To live fully while he still could.

Christmas is the perfect time to remember this.

Not because it's religious or sentimental. But because it's one of the few days where everyone slows down at the same time.

And in that slowness, you have a choice.

You can go through the motions. Check the boxes. Take the photos. Post the highlights.

Or you can actually be here. Fully. Completely. Like it's your last time.

What Would Change If You Knew

If you knew this was your last Christmas, here's what would matter:

The conversation you've been avoiding would happen.

That thing you've been meaning to say to your mom, your dad, your sibling. You'd say it.

Not tomorrow. Not next year. Tonight.

Because you wouldn't have the luxury of "later."

Most of us go through life leaving things unsaid. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for it to feel less awkward.

But the right moment is now. Because now is all you actually have.

You'd stop performing and start being present.

No more checking your phone to see if anyone liked your post. No more thinking about what you're going to do later.

You'd just be here. In this room. With these people. In this moment.

Because if this was your last Christmas, this moment would be everything.

The sound of your family talking. The way your mom laughs. The stupid jokes your dad tells every year.

These aren't small things. They're the only things.

You'd stop caring about the stuff that doesn't matter.

The argument from last week? Gone. The grudge you've been holding? Released. The judgment about how your life is going? Irrelevant.

When you remember you're dying, all of that disappears.

You're left with what's real: love, presence, gratitude.

You'd tell people what they mean to you.

Not in some dramatic, movie-scene way. Just honest.

"I'm grateful for you." "You made me feel less alone." "Thank you for being here."

Most people never say this. They wait. They assume there will be time.

But what if there isn't?

The Gift Nobody Talks About

Here's what nobody tells you about the holidays.

The real gift isn't what's under the tree. It's time. Presence. Connection.

And you're running out of it.

Not just today. But in general.

If you're lucky, you'll get maybe 80 Christmases in your life. If you're 20, you've already used 20 of them. You have 60 left.

That sounds like a lot until you realize each one passes faster than the last.

This Christmas—right now, tonight—is one you'll never get back.

The people in your life right now might not be here next year. You might not be here next year.

That's not meant to scare you. It's meant to wake you up.

Because most people spend their entire lives half-present. Thinking about the next thing. Planning the future. Replaying the past.

They're never actually here.

And then one day, they run out of time. And they realize all those moments they were distracted during? Those were the moments that mattered.

Don't be that person.

How to Live Like This Is Your Last Christmas

Here's what to do tonight:

Put your phone away.

Not on silent. Not face down. Away. In another room if you have to.

Because every time you check it, you're choosing a screen over the people in front of you.

And if this was your last Christmas, that choice would haunt you.

Tell someone what they mean to you.

Pick one person. Say something real.

Not "I love you" (though that works). But something specific.

"You always made me feel like I could do anything." "I'm grateful you never gave up on me." "Thank you for being here."

They'll remember that forever. So will you.

Be fully present for one conversation.

Not half-listening while thinking about something else. Fully there.

Look them in the eye. Listen like their words matter. Ask questions. Be curious about their life.

This is what people remember.

Not the gifts. Not the decorations. The moments you were actually there.

Let go of something that doesn't matter.

That grudge. That judgment. That argument.

If you only had tonight, you wouldn't waste a second on it.

So don't.

Feel it all.

The good and the uncomfortable. The joy and the complexity of family dynamics.

Don't numb it. Don't distract from it. Don't escape into your phone.

Just feel it. Because feeling is living. And living is what you're here for.

What I'm Doing Differently This Year

I'll be honest with you.

I used to spend Christmas on my phone. Half-present. Thinking about work. About what I needed to do tomorrow. About my next move.

My sister getting sick changed that.

It made me realize that "next year" isn't guaranteed. That the people I love won't be here forever. That I won't be here forever.

So this year, I'm doing it differently.

Phone goes away. Not on the table. Not in my pocket. Away.

I'm going to have the conversations I've been putting off. I'm going to tell people what they mean to me. I'm going to be fully here.

Because if this was my last Christmas, nothing else would matter except being present with the people I love.

And honestly? That should be true whether it's my last Christmas or not.

The Truth About Tonight

You don't know if this is your last Christmas.

But you don't know that it isn't.

And that uncertainty should change everything.

Not in a scary way. In a clarifying way.

It should make the small stuff disappear. It should make the important stuff obvious.

It should make you put your phone down and look at the people in front of you.

It should make you say the things you've been meaning to say.

It should make you grateful for this moment. This night. These people.

Because you only get so many of these. And you never know which one is the last.

So live like this one matters. Because it does.

Be present. Be grateful. Be here.

TAKEAWAYS:

• Memento mori isn't morbid—it's clarifying. It shows you what actually matters.

• If this was your last Christmas, you'd stop performing and start being present

• Tell people what they mean to you—specifically, honestly, today

• Put your phone away and choose the people in front of you over the screen

• Let go of grudges and arguments—they won't matter when time runs out

• Be fully present for at least one conversation tonight—that's what people remember

• You don't know if this is your last Christmas, but you don't know that it isn't

• Time with the people you love is the only gift that truly matters

P.S. Merry Christmas. I hope you spend the next days with people you love, fully present, fully grateful. And if you're alone, I hope you find peace in the quiet and gratitude for the life you're building. Whatever your situation, remember: just one life. Make this moment count.

Just one life,

Richard - Founder of Elevenstoic