Just a quick heads-up: today’s writing touches on something we all think about, whether we choose to admit it or not. It’s the topic we pack away in a box at the back of our minds, only to bring out when life insists on it—death. The end of this life. But don’t stop reading there; this isn’t going to be bleak or hopeless. Quite the opposite. This is about recognising something tender and vital—something honest. Because everything has a life span. Not everything has a ‘best before’ or ‘use by’ date printed on the bottom of it, but that doesn’t make the truth any less real: nothing lasts forever.
I spent yesterday with my dad, and it was one of those days that will stay etched in my memory forever. He’s 90 years old now, and facing down his fourth battle with cancer. Just a few days ago, he was told the cancer is spreading, and that there’s nothing more that can be done. And yet, true to the man he is, he simply shrugged when he told me and said, “Well, I’ve got to go at some point. Nothing lasts forever,” and then he laughed. That’s who he is. That’s why he’s my hero.
We spent the whole day together, with the telly switched off—rare for my dad—and went through all his worldly affairs. I’m the executor of his will, and he wanted to make sure everything was in order. Not for him, but for me. So I wouldn’t be burdened with extra tasks when that moment eventually comes, when I’ll be longing for his voice, his warmth, his presence. I was grateful he brought it up—it’s not an easy conversation to have, especially with a man who seems to defy age with his spirit and still carries the vitality of someone thirty years younger.
But what happened before we began is what I’ll carry in my heart forever. My dad looked at me and said, “Let’s pray together.” I’ve always known him to be spiritual—I’ve heard him talking quietly to his God each night before bed—but we’d never prayed together. And yet, in that moment, we did. His prayer was simple and profound:
“My God, help us meet this task with open hearts, with joy and happiness, and not let the fact that all things must end turn this time into anything but quality time between me and my son.”
It was, without question, the most beautiful prayer I’ve ever heard.
We worked our way through everything—legal documents, papers, the nitty-gritty stuff—but we did it with laughter and ease. As we ticked things off the list, we tucked them into a little red case that bore a striking resemblance to the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s budget box. That quickly became the running joke: we were sorting out the “family budget” and I was now the unofficial Chancellor of our own little legacy.
Eventually, we found ourselves looking through old photographs—snapshots of holidays, birthdays, and moments that once felt ordinary but now shimmer with a kind of sacred glow. At first, it was joyful, until we came across a few pictures that, while frozen in a moment of apparent happiness, masked a very different reality. I was drunk or high in those moments. At the time, I was pretending to be okay, pretending to be present. But I wasn’t.
I began to tell my dad the truth—peeling back the old facade, exposing what was really going on underneath. His response? Grace. Love. He simply said, “I knew.”
And that floored me.
He wasn’t angry, or disappointed. Just loving. He’d seen me more clearly than I’d seen myself, and he loved me all the same. When we finished—just as the football was about to come on—he turned to me and said, “I love you, and always have and always will. I’m so proud of what you’ve become, and what you’ve achieved. Not just this year, though I’m grateful you’re sober and happy. I’m proud of who you’ve always been—because you never gave up on life completely.” Then, like only he could, he switched the footy on, as if nothing had just cracked my heart open in the most healing way.
That moment reminded me of something I’d read not long ago:
A Zen master had a favourite tea cup. He used it every day, admired it, cherished it. One day, while washing it, the cup slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor.
A young monk, observing, rushed over in dismay.
“Master, aren’t you sad? That was your favourite cup!”
The master smiled and said, “No, my son. To me, the cup was already broken.”
My dad lives with that same grace. He holds life not with tight fists, but with open palms. He doesn’t resist what is—he meets it head on, with humour, love, and acceptance. Like the Zen master, he understands that things are already broken, already passing, and that’s what makes them precious. His outlook isn’t resignation—it’s wisdom. He teaches, just by being himself, that when we accept impermanence, we begin to truly live. Not in fear of the end, but in full appreciation of the moment.
His prayer—that we meet this task “with open hearts, with joy and happiness”—is more than a request. It’s an invitation. A way of being. A reminder that even in difficult conversations, even in facing death, we can find beauty, connection, and even laughter, if we stop trying to bend the world to our will and instead allow ourselves to see it as it is.
And through this, I realise just how much I have to be grateful for.
Because without Alcoholics Anonymous, without my spiritual awakening and my continued sobriety—both physical and spiritual—I wouldn’t have been truly present for any of this. I wouldn’t have been able to sit beside my dad with an open heart, or feel the joy and gravity of these moments. I’d have been lost in resentment or regret, trying to change things, trying to escape them. But instead, I was there. I am here.
Through AA, I’ve been given the gift of seeing life clearly. Not as I wish it to be, but as it is—and that, in itself, is beautiful. Even the difficult bits. Even the heartbreak. Because now I can feel it all. I can walk through hard days with a smile, laugh while talking about death, and know that joy and pain can live side by side. I can even have fun doing the things I once found unbearable.
I’m so deeply grateful for that—for this new way of living. Grateful to be sober. Grateful to be awake. Grateful to see the beauty in every fleeting moment, and to know, truly know, that nothing lasts forever…
And that, in itself, is the very reason to love it all while it’s here.
Already Broken, Already Whole
The leaf does not cling to the branch,
when autumn arrives.
It lets go,
without needing a reason.
All things come and go.
Not because they are unworthy,
but because they are real.
And reality moves.
It does not wait for our readiness.
The wise do not resist the current;
they step in,
ankle-deep in grace.
Yesterday, I sat with my father.
He is ninety years into his path,
and still laughs like a boy,
who’s seen too much to be afraid.
“The cancer’s spreading,” he said,
as though naming the rain.
“Well, I’ve got to go at some point.”
And then he smiled,
as if dying were just another,
walk across the garden.
We prayed.
Not in fear,
but in gratitude.
Not to beg for more time,
but to bless the time we had.
His words were soft,
but struck like truth:
“Let this be joyful, my God.
Let it not be sorrow,
but time well spent.”
We sorted papers,
tucked them into a red case,
a sacred budget,
of love and legacy.
Even death,
he approached with order and ease,
to spare me the weight.
And when the photos came out,
some bright with innocence,
some blurred by my old escapes,
I told the truth.
He already knew.
And loved me still.
Is this not the Way?
To be known and not shamed?
To fall and still be called beloved?
The cup, said the master,
was already broken.
That is why he cherished it.
So too, my father.
He holds life,
with open hands,
never clutching,
never flinching.
And in doing so,
he holds me.
Not everything has a date stamped on it.
But everything is passing.
To know this,
and not despair,
this is wisdom.
To laugh beside it,
to sort papers beside it,
to pray beside it,
this is love.
The way does not mourn,
the end of the wave,
it celebrates the sea.
And I,
sober, awake,
no longer missing my own life,
have seen it.
This moment.
This man.
This day.
Already gone.
Already here.
Already broken.
Already whole.
