There’s a theory in psychology and grief work called “the last meeting.” It suggests that we often don’t know when the final moment with someone will come—until it has already passed. The last text. The last hug. The last breath. The last time we saw their eyes and didn’t realize it was goodbye.

For many of us, this theory isn’t theoretical at all. It’s real. It’s felt. It stays in our bodies like a memory that keeps breathing long after the moment itself has died.

For me, that moment was November 1st, 2024.

It lingers like a scar. Not just because of what happened—but because of what didn’t. The words I didn’t say. The anger I didn’t express. The goodbye that was swallowed by silence or pride or hope. Or maybe it was just the wrong time—but now there is no more time.

When I ask myself, “What do I wish I’d said?”
The answer is raw and unfiltered:
“Fuck off.”

There’s a surprising kind of truth in that.

It’s not poetic. It’s not tender. But it’s honest.
And when we talk about healing, honesty matters more than manners.

Sometimes the words we never said are sharp because the wound was sharp. Sometimes healing begins not with forgiveness, but with truth—even if that truth is bitter, unresolved, or furious.

But this theory doesn’t just point us backward.
It also turns our eyes to the present.

It asks:

“Is there someone I can reach out to before it’s too late?”

And my heart says: Yes. My son.
There is still time. Still air in our lungs. Still a chance to be heard, seen, softened. And maybe that’s what the last meeting teaches us most: that every moment we still have is a chance to rewrite what we thought was too late.

And so, I reflect:

If I truly believed that every goodbye could be the last, would I live differently?

Yes.
At least for one person in particular.

I would make damn sure they knew how I really felt.
No masks. No diplomacy. Just the truth—messy, beautiful, wild, and real.

And when the day comes that I am no longer here…

What do I want someone’s last memory of me to be?

Not perfect.
Not painless.
But authentic.

I want the people I love to remember:

• Love. The kind that’s deep and inconvenient and honest.
• Kindness. Not the performative kind, but the kind that listens.
• Truth. Even when it trembles.
• Honesty. Especially when it’s hard.

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🕯️ Gentle Reminder

You don’t have to rewrite the past to honor it.
You don’t have to force closure where there’s only absence.
But if you’re still breathing, you still have the pen in your hand.
And that means you can still write one more sentence. You can still say what’s true. You can still make this meeting count.

Because the next one? It could be the last.

So make it matter.