We die every day. Not in the dramatic, final way—but in quieter ones. A version of us ends every time we change, every time we let go, every time we move on.

Old dreams fall away. People drift. Habits break. Parts of us that felt permanent begin to fade without warning. And if we’re not paying attention, we only notice when we look back and realize we’re not who we were.

But maybe that’s not something to mourn. Maybe it’s something to honour. Because every small death makes space for something new—a shift in perspective, a deeper sense of self, a gentler way of being in the world.

We don’t just lose. We trade. We release one version of ourselves to welcome another. And even when we don’t feel ready, life has a way of nudging us forward anyway.

There’s beauty in that. There’s growth hidden in endings. There’s light in shedding what no longer fits. And some days, that’s what keeps me going—the quiet faith that something better is always being made inside the pieces I leave behind.

We die every day. But we are also born again. Not just once, but over and over. And that, maybe, is the point.