Mortal Judgments
On mortality, meaning, and why learning to judge better might be the most human thing we do.
“You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” —Marcus Aurelius
There’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come with a dramatic soundtrack. No tragic music, no flash of lightning, no swelling violins. It just arrives quietly, almost politely, disguised as a typical day.
You’re halfway through your morning coffee when it hits you: this (whatever this is) won’t last.
The season you’re in. The relationship you thought would go the distance. The body that used to bounce back faster. The person sitting across from you. Even you.
Everything ends.
We know this.
And yet, we live like we don’t.
We say “see you soon” like it’s a given. We put off the apology, the trip, the project, and the tough conversation because there'll always be time until there isn’t.
But time isn’t a guarantee; it’s a loan. And the terms of the contract are vague.
I don’t say this to be morbid, quite the opposite.
The more I accept this, the more alive everything feels.
The more present I become. I start noticing the weight of a hug. The look in someone’s eyes when they’re being themselves. The way my kids laugh.
Something in me wants to stop pretending we’re immortal.
There’s a peace that comes when you stop pretending things last forever. Not a panic, not a rush, just a profound sense that this is it. This is the moment. Not later. Not someday. Now.
The end is not the enemy. It’s what makes everything in the middle matter.
There’s a scene in Troy, yes (the Brad Pitt one), that stuck with me more than I expected. Achilles is speaking to Briseis, and at one point he says:
“The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal. Because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed.”
It’s the kind of line that could feel overcooked in the wrong hands, but something is devastating and true about it.
If nothing ever ended, if you knew you had infinite time, infinite chances, would anything mean anything at all?
It’s easy to think that meaning comes from love, purpose, or passion. And sure, those things count. But underneath all of it, I suspect what makes something matter is the knowledge that we won’t get it forever, and it can be lost; it will be lost.
You can feel it when someone looks at you as if they see you. You know that look won’t last. You can’t bottle it. That’s what makes it valuable. Or when your child reaches for your hand before they get too old or too cool to do it. It won’t always happen. So you squeeze a little tighter.
The clock is always ticking.
Not in a doomsday, anxiety-producing way. More like a soft metronome, reminding you: Be here. Now. This counts.
And maybe that’s what the gods envy, not just our mortality but our urgency. Our need to decide. To choose who we are, how we love, and what hill we’re willing to die on, all within this limited window of time.
We get one shot. And that pressure? That’s the forge where meaning is made.
The fact that life ends forces us to care.
It also forces us to make a choice.
And every choice is a judgment.
We don’t often think of it that way; judgment has become a dirty word, something we’re constantly told not to do. “Don’t judge” is the moral equivalent of “Live, laugh, love.” Ubiquitous. Well-meaning. Useless.
But not judging isn’t neutral. It’s incoherent.
If we didn’t judge, we wouldn’t know how to move through the world. We wouldn’t know who to trust, what to value, or when to walk away.
Judgment isn’t cruelty. It’s discernment.
It’s saying that this matters more than that. This feels right. That doesn’t. This relationship brings me alive. That one drains me.
It’s easy to fantasize about being the non-judgmental observer, above it all, endlessly tolerant, endlessly open.
But try living that way, and you’ll quickly see that without judgment, everything flattens. Nothing means anything because everything is treated the same.
And when time is running out, which it always is, you can’t afford that kind of detachment.
You need to decide what stays.
Who stays.
Who leaves.
What you’ll give yourself to before it’s too late.
So, no, I don’t think the goal is to stop judging.
I think it’s better to judge more. More honestly. More proactively.
With the awareness that this is your one short life, and how you spend it is the clearest expression of what you believe and what you stand for.
So much of what we’re taught is a contradiction.
Don’t judge, they say, but choose wisely.
Live like there’s no tomorrow, but plan for the future.
Let go, but hold on to what matters.
Maybe being human isn’t about resolving the contradiction but about learning how to live with it.
To love fully, knowing it might not last.
To choose what matters without needing to justify it to anyone else.
To let go of certainty, but not of clarity.
To accept that everything ends, and still show up, heart open, knowing the ending doesn’t make the story less beautiful. If anything, it makes it more.
There’s something freeing in that. A sense that you don’t have to get it perfect. You just have to be here now, doing your best with the time you’ve been given.
And maybe the gods do envy us.
Not for our power. Not for our wisdom.
But for the fact that we get to do this:
To wake up knowing it could all fall apart at any time and still choose to care.
Book Recommendation:
When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi: This one’s not a productivity hack. It’s a soul-stretcher. Written by a neurosurgeon facing his terminal illness, When Breath Becomes Air isn’t just about dying; it’s about deciding what makes a life worth living when the countdown isn’t theoretical anymore. If you’ve ever wondered how to make better use of your time here without turning your life into a checklist, this book hits home, quietly and without preaching.