Life is Death
Without death, life drifts.
I lost one of my best friends this past December.
On the night of the 19th, he had a heart attack, and that was it.
He was 49 years old.
A beautiful man. A good-hearted human being. Someone who walked this earth in service to others, spreading kindness without asking for recognition. He didn’t drink. He didn’t party. He didn’t live recklessly. He was simply living his life, trying to do right by the people around him.
And just like that, he was gone.
His family, his wife, his parents, his sister, were left with no explanation except one: a hereditary heart condition. The same kind I have. In a time of extraordinary medical advancement, losing someone at 49 feels almost impossible to accept.
It feels wrong.
Unfinished.
I have asked myself too many questions since his death, most of them unanswered. And yet, strangely, I have never felt more alive.
That is why this piece is called Life Is Death.
The pain of losing him is real and heavy. But his absence has shaken me awake in a way nothing else ever has. I will never understand the depth of his family’s grief, but I know this: his death has forced me to confront my own life with brutal clarity.
I speak to him now.
I ask him to guide me.
To help me be a better man.
Kinder.
More patient.
More humble.
More willing to serve, the way he always did.
When a truly good human being is taken by death, it becomes undeniable how much his life mattered. And it also becomes painfully clear how often we assume we have more time.
If I had known I would lose my friend at 49, I would have done more.
Been closer.
Listened better.
Shown up harder for the things that weighed on him.
So yes, life is death.
Without death, life drifts. Death gives life its urgency, its weight, its meaning. It reminds us that every breath matters, that every step counts, that the way we treat people is a reflection of who we are.
In honor of my friend Jose Luis “Pelin” Lambarri, I choose to live differently. I choose not to waste my time on things that don’t matter. I choose a life that leaves something behind, something of value to others, something that helps the people I leave behind truly live.
I hope that one day, when I see him again, he will be proud of how I lived after he was gone.
E.
PD: Escribo en inglés porque no puedo hacerlo en español ahorita. Escribir me ayuda a desahogarme, y si puedo honrar a mi Pelin con la inspiración que me dejó su vida y más aún su partida, entonces que así sea. Al final de cuentas, mi Pelin siempre me decía “pochito fronterizo”.
I hear you, bud
Abrazo fuerte, mi querido Eduardo.