The Story Only You Can Tell

Being Enough in the Age of AI

“I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

These were the most common words shared by those nearing the end of life, according to Australian palliative nurse Bronnie Ware in her book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying. I read her book during the pandemic, in the quiet chaos of lockdown, searching for meaning in the midst of uncertainty. I was asking myself: Why am I here? What truly matters? What do I want to leave behind?

What did I want my children to know about life, about love, about who their father really was?

Around the same time, I revisited The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. Together, those two works cracked something open in me. They didn’t just make me reflect, they made me reckon with time, with purpose, with the difference between being busy and being alive.

And I have to say despite all the reflection, the reading, the intentions…I still haven’t figured it out.

I haven’t yet aligned my health, family, friendships, teaching, work, and finances into some neatly fulfilled life. It’s still a messy, ongoing battle.

But Bronnie’s words have stayed with me.

After years of sitting beside the dying, she heard the same refrain across cultures and careers, not regrets about money, promotions, or unfinished tasks, but a deep yearning for authenticity. For presence. For a life lived in alignment with what truly mattered.

And it’s hard to ignore that truth, especially now.

Because if you knew you had just 24 hours left, wouldn’t you ask: What was it all for?
What truly mattered? What did I leave behind that meant something?

Not the checklist. Not the title. Not the bank account.

But this: Did I love without holding back? Did I show up when it counted? Did I spend my time on what and who was the most important in my life?

In those final hours, we don’t crave more productivity. We ache for meaning. For presence. For peace.

And yet, most days, we don’t live like that’s what matters. We move fast. We multitask. We measure our worth in metrics and milestones. We compare ourselves against highlight reels, scroll through curated lives, and wonder if we’re falling behind. We whisper doubts into the silence:

You should’ve done more. Been more. Achieved more.

These whispers are louder than ever in an age where artificial intelligence is reshaping how we work, parent, and teach. Many of us, especially those in care-driven roles like teachers, parents, and community leaders are wondering: What’s my place in a world where machines can replicate so much?

It’s not just fear of job loss. It’s fear of worth-loss.

The fear isn’t just about losing our jobs.
It’s the quieter fear—of becoming invisible. Of being forgotten.
Of waking up one day and realizing the things that once made us feel valuable, our care, our effort, our presence have been replaced or overlooked.

Teachers and parents feel this shift acutely.
These roles have always been deeply human rooted in trust, relationship, and presence.
And yet now, even in these sacred spaces, we’re left wondering:
Do I still matter?
What part of me can’t be copied, coded, or calculated?

Because the anxiety isn’t just professional…it’s personal.
It’s not just about falling behind.
It’s about losing the thread of who we are.

And maybe that’s the question underneath it all, not “Am I keeping up?”
But “Am I still seen?” and Am I still enough?

Not perfect. Not finished.
Just… human. And here.
And enough.

And maybe the answer begins with pausing long enough to ask what we’re really chasing, what voices we’ve let define us, and whether if the story ended today we would feel at peace with how we showed up.

The Race None of Us Signed Up For

We're parents, teachers, leaders running a race without a finish line. A race we never consciously chose.

Our culture says:
Your worth equals your productivity.
Your presence only counts if it's posted.
Your love is measured in likes and achievements.

We chase validation through external measures, scrolling through curated lives, never seeing behind the digital curtain of anxieties and doubts.

We tell ourselves dangerous stories:

"They seem to manage everything effortlessly."

"Why am I always behind?"

"Stopping feels like falling."

But here's the truth hidden beneath our collective performance anxiety:

The race isn’t real, but the exhaustion is.

And in a world accelerating with AI, that exhaustion will only deepen if we don’t pause to ask the questions Bronnie heard so often from the dying:
Was I true to myself? And, did I live the life I was meant to, not just the one others expected?

Because if we don't, we risk running faster toward a version of success that was never really ours.

Why Enough Never Feels Like Enough

Sometimes, no matter how fully we show up as parents reading one more bedtime story, as teachers staying late for one more struggling student, something whispers it's still not enough.

We confuse genuine care with constant productivity. We mistake endless striving for true impact. We lose ourselves in metrics rather than meaningful moments.

But the feeling that we’re never enough isn’t a flaw. It’s not a sign that we’ve failed.

It’s evidence that we care deeply.

What I'm Learning About Being Enough

You don’t have to prove you’re enough through output, success, sacrifice, or striving.
It’s a truth that’s already inside you buried sometimes, forgotten often, but always there.

It’s about remembering, not achieving. It’s about coming home to yourself, not climbing higher.

This has and probably always will be a struggle for me to fully accept.

Sometimes it feels a bit like Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire, right at the beginning mid-existential crisis, reflecting on what really matters in his relationships with his athlete clients.

I’m not exactly singing Free Fallin’ at the top of my lungs.
But in my quiet way, I’m trying.

And in the age of AI, that contemplation has only deepened.
The constant influx of information, the speed of change, the pressure to keep up, it can be overwhelming.

But as a role model, parent, teacher, and leader, I’ve realized I have to be transparent in this balancing act.

Because what matters most doesn’t live on a scoreboard. It lives in stillness.

It’s not found in metrics but in moments.
In the way you look your child in the eyes.
In the way you show up tired, but present.
In the truth you speak when performance would be easier.

Social media reflects perception, not reality.
Legacy isn’t built at life’s end, it’s shaped moment by moment.
Comparison doesn’t just steal joy, it distorts truth.
And rest? Rest isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.

And loving yourself in the middle of the chaos?
That’s not indulgence, That’s what my teacher would say is the assignment.

Your Eulogy

If your story ended today, what would you want said about you?

Did you show up for the people who mattered most?
Did you speak honestly, even when silence was easier?
Did you love fully not just out of habit, but out of presence?
Did you stay human in a world pushing you to be perfect?

Those answers, that’s your compass. Not for some imagined legacy, but for tomorrow morning.

So ask yourself, if this was your final day, who would be standing beside you? What words would you wish you’d said? What old narratives about your worth would you finally let go of?

And if you truly believed you were already enough…right now, as you are, how would that change the way you parent, teach, lead, or live?

Because here’s the truth, our kids, our students, the people we support, they don’t need polished heroes.

They need us. As we are. Messy, trying, learning, present.

In an AI-saturated world obsessed with optimization and outcomes, what they need most is what can’t be automated:

Real presence. Real care. Real humanity.

And maybe the best legacy we can offer them is this
Not how to chase “enough,”
But how to recognize it.
Name it.
Live it.

Before you go…

Randy Pausch, in The Last Lecture, didn’t just speak about dying. He spoke about living while you still can. With clarity. With purpose. With love.

So before you leave, ask yourself:

If today were the final day, what would you stop carrying? What would you finally say? What would you have wished you had done with your family and friends?

And what would it look like to move through the next 24 hours already knowing

You don’t need to prove anything.

You are already enough.