There are moments in life when everything feels steady. The house is warm, the kettle hums, someone we love is sitting in the next room, and all seems—to use that rare word—quiet. It’s easy, in those moments, to believe that life will always look and feel just as it does now. That the ground beneath our feet is fixed. That the people we love will always be here. That the stories we tell ourselves about “how things are” will simply continue on.
But as the Buddhist philosophy reminds us gently, nothing is permanent. Life is, by its nature, ever-changing. The Japanese call it mono no aware: the tenderness that comes from recognising the fleetingness of life, the way beauty and fragility are intertwined.
We are each just one phone call, one diagnosis, one unexpected crossing of paths away from a different life entirely.
This isn’t a warning or a threat. It’s simply the truth of being human.
The Moment Everything Changes
If you speak to anyone who has lived through loss, illness, or sudden change, they can usually tell you the exact moment their life pivoted. A doctor stepping into a room, a number flashing on the caller ID, a routine check-up that suddenly wasn’t. Or something quieter—a sentence spoken, a door closed, a decision they didn’t see coming.
Life rarely sends a polite letter of intent before it alters course. Yet most of us live as though it will.
We hurry, complain, delay, postpone. We assume there will always be time.
Time to ring back later.
Time to say sorry another day.
Time to take that holiday “once things calm down.”
Time to say the things we mean but keep tucked away.
But the truth is: we never really know.
That realisation can feel frightening at first, but in Buddhism, it is seen not as something to fear but something to soften us. To wake us up. To help us notice the very life we are in.
What We Take for Granted
We take for granted that the person we love will be beside us in the morning.
We take for granted that our bodies will continue to work as they always have.
We take for granted that friendships will stay alive without tending.
We take for granted that we will have next summer, next Christmas, next year.
And yet—the most precious things are the most fragile.
The person snoring softly next to you.
The ordinary Wednesday afternoon.
The feel of your hands resting in warm dishwater.
Even the little annoyances — a pile of shoes by the door, someone using the last of the milk — are signs of life being lived.
When we stop taking the ordinary for granted, the world becomes softer. Kinder. More vivid.
We begin to see what was always there.
Staying Humble
Humility isn’t about shrinking yourself or living anxiously. It’s about understanding that life is shared and borrowed, not owned.
Staying humble means recognising:
We do not control everything.
We cannot always predict.
We are not owed certainty.
But instead of this making life smaller, it makes life richer. Because when we accept that we are not guaranteed tomorrow, we start to show up today.
We speak more kindly.
We hold eye contact longer.
We let grudges loosen.
We say thank you and mean it.
We allow ourselves to be happy now, not waiting until everything is perfect.
Preparing Without Fear
There is a misconception that thinking about change, illness, or loss is morbid. But planning for the unexpected doesn’t mean expecting the worst — it means respecting the truth of life.
We can make a Plan B without living in fear.
A Plan B might mean:
Making sure your wishes are written down.
Clarifying who you’d want to speak or act on your behalf.
Having simple conversations about “what if” while everyone is calm and well.
Holding copies of important documents where they can be easily found.
Keeping a list of passwords and essential contacts in one safe place.
Writing letters now — not later.
This isn’t gloomy. It’s love in practical action.
It says:
“If life changes suddenly, I want to make it easier for the people I adore. I want to be thoughtful now, while everything is still okay.”
Planning doesn’t strip away joy.
It creates peace.
Being Alive to the Present Moment
The real gift in understanding impermanence is not sorrow. It is attention.
Suddenly, the small things matter again:
The morning light across the kitchen tiles.
The laugh of a friend on the other end of the phone.
The familiar walk to the shop.
The softness of your dog’s ears.
The warmth of someone’s hand resting against yours.
We stop moving so quickly past our own lives.
We notice ourselves living.
We become — perhaps for the first time — truly awake to our days.
A Final Thought
Life is not something to grip tightly, as though we can hold it still. It is something to move with, breathe with, meet softly.
We are not here to control every outcome.
We are here to love, to notice, to care, to prepare where we can, and to be present where we are.
So let’s stay humble.
Let’s not take each other for granted.
Let’s make space for joy, even on ordinary days.
Let’s say the words while we still can.
And let’s remember:
Nothing is permanent.
But that is what makes everything precious.
Is there something you would like to make clear?
If there are things you’ve been meaning to say — gratitude, love, forgiveness, clarity, reassurance — perhaps today is the day to begin.
Not perfectly.
Not poetically.
Just honestly.
Start the note.
Start the sentence.
Start where you are.
We’ll help you find the words.
