Holly Butcher’s words, penned just 24 hours before her passing at 27, I find myself drawn into deep introspection.

There are moments in life when the veil between the ordinary and the profound grows thin—when we are forced to look at our own existence not as an endless string of tomorrows, but as a finite, fragile gift. Reading Holly Butcher’s words, penned just 24 hours before her passing at 27, I find myself drawn into deep introspection.

What does it mean to truly *live* when the illusion of endless time is stripped away? Holly’s honesty about her longing for a future she’ll never see—wrinkled skin, a house full of children, one more birthday—reminds me how easily I take the everyday for granted. I, too, often let trivial annoyances cloud my days: a traffic jam, a restless night, a moment of self-doubt in the mirror. But Holly’s voice echoes: let all that go. When the end draws near, none of it matters. What remains is the ache for just one more ordinary day with those we love.

Her reflections urge me to re-examine the way I move through my own life. How often do I pause to breathe deeply, to notice the blue of the sky or the green of the trees? How often do I let the small stuff steal my joy, forgetting that the ability to work, to exercise, to simply *be* is itself a privilege? Holly’s gratitude for the mundane—her body, her health, even her pain-free days—challenges me to shift my perspective.

She writes about the importance of giving, of valuing experiences over things, of being present rather than capturing moments for others to see. I wonder: Am I living in a way that will leave me with few regrets? Do I tell my loved ones how much they mean to me, or do I assume there will always be another chance? Holly’s courage in facing the inevitable, her insistence that we have the power to change what makes us miserable, is both a comfort and a call to action.

Perhaps the most humbling part of her message is the reminder that our time is not a given right. Each day is a gift—one that can be unwrapped only once. As I sit with Holly’s words, I realize that the true measure of a life is not in its length, but in its depth: in gratitude, in kindness, in the courage to love and to change, and in the willingness to give, even as we face our own ending.

Tonight, I will breathe a little deeper. I will hug my loved ones tighter. And I will try, as Holly did, to make my time here worthy and great—minus the bullshit.