There’s this quiet truth I’ve been wrestling with lately:

That everything I own, my car, my clothes, my home, even the teaspoons in my drawer, will one day be someone else’s burden to sort through.

I think about Kaisel, my little electric car, and how much I’ve already poured into him. By the end of our four years together, I’ll have paid nearly £14,000. And if I refinance, he could be mine for good. But “for good” is temporary, isn’t it? A few years later, there’ll be newer cars. Better range. Lighter builds. What was once my freedom will eventually be something to let go.

And it’s not just about things, it’s about meaning.

Because I name what I care for. I give it part of my story. And one day, that same story might be tossed into a box by someone who just wants to finish their shift and go home.

I saw this once back in 2018, when I worked at a mental nursing home. A new resident came in, confused and grieving, while a tired social worker packed up her home. Everything-her house, her photos, the life she’d built, was being emptied and sold. I watched the heartbreak in one woman’s eyes and the exhaustion in the other’s. Two ends of a system. Two ways of coping with the same truth: we all let go, eventually.

It’s a hard thing to carry, this awareness.

That everything we work for… we will someday release.

That even I, a nurse full of intention and care, might be seen as more of a liability than an asset when I’m old and slower and no longer “productive.”

That the crypto I stack, the reflections I write, the legacy I try to build, they might be forgotten or deleted or simply fade.

And still, I choose to care. I choose to name things. To love. To remember. As long as I can.

Because even if it’s fleeting, it’s mine now. And that makes it sacred.

AI will keep improving. Technology will always upgrade.

But being human, really human, means feeling the weight of impermanence, and still choosing to live fully within it.

It’s painful.

And it’s beautiful.

And maybe, that’s what makes it all real.