Yet one thing cannot be robbed of her futurity: my daughter, Cady. I hope I’ll live long enough that she has some memory of me. Words have a longevity I do not. I had thought I could leave her a series of letters — but what would they really say? ... There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all but past. That message is simple: When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied.
Recorded
Stanford Medicine magazine, Spring 2015, 23 February 2015
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So maybe I don’t try to figure it out. Maybe I just aim to get the couch right: strong bones, high-quality leather, something earthy and animal and real. A surface that knows something of what it was to be alive, that warms to our touch and cools in our absence. Also: an expansive bench that fits all of us. Something that will hold us through everything that lies ahead — the loving, collapsing and nuzzling. The dying, the grieving.
Recorded
The New York Times, Modern Love, 23 September 2016
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I want to leave my children three foundational tools to navigate the world:
Life skills: The practical capability and independence to take care of themselves, solve everyday problems, and handle adult responsibilities with ease.
Confidence: A self-belief rooted in resilience, knowing they have worth, deserve to take up space, and can handle failure without letting it define them.
A sense of humor: The ability to find levity in life's absurdity, laugh at themselves, and keep perspective when things don't go according to plan.
If they leave home with these three things, they'll have everything they need to build a meaningful life.