45: A Year of Death and Creation

Reflections on Mortality, Surrender, and Renewal

Before I dive into today’s birthday reflection on my 45th year, I wanted to share some news: I’ve started a blog.

You might be wondering, why start a blog in 2024 when everyone’s focused on newsletters, and I already have Where the Road Bends? The answer is simple—I feel called to share more frequently and openly, beyond just transitions and conscious change. While Where the Road Bends will continue to feature my longer essays and deeper reflections, this new blog will be a space for shorter, more spontaneous musings, with the occasional longer post. If you’d like to follow along, visit schlaf.life, and feel free to subscribe for updates. I’d love to have you there.

Now, onto today’s reflection on what this past year has revealed to me about death and creation…

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Today, I turn 45. It’s surreal seeing that number—45—staring back at me, not because of the age itself, but because of what it represents. Another year, another chapter. Yet, as I stand here, I feel as vibrant and alive as I did in my early 30s—full of energy, possibility, and a deeper sense of purpose.

When I was younger, 45 seemed distant—old, even—but now that I’m here, I realize it’s not about age. It’s about vitality, creativity, and the ongoing journey of becoming. This milestone is more than a blessing; it’s a gift, one I hold with immense gratitude.

This past year has been a dance between heaviness and lightness, guided by two forces that seem like opposites but are deeply intertwined: death and creation. I encountered both in their rawest forms this year, and what struck me most is how connected they are. In confronting mortality, we truly grasp the fragile, precious nature of life. And often, in the shadow of death, something new—alive and full of potential—takes shape.

Last October, I participated in the Hoffman Process, a deeply transformative experience that helped me unravel the patterns I inherited from my parents, especially my father. Just as I was beginning to understand these patterns, I had a surreal encounter with death. Two days before the process ended, I learned my father was in hospice, on the verge of passing. The timing felt almost divine, as though it had aligned with the emotional work I was doing.

Two days later, I stood by his bedside, watching his final breaths. The air was still, and the only sound was his labored breathing, a slow, fading rhythm. My older brother sat beside me, a silent witness to the moment. As I held his limp hand and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, I said goodbye—not with resentment, but with love and forgiveness. In that moment, I knew a chapter in my life was closing. Death has a way of bringing clarity—what once felt impossible to release suddenly dissolves. His passing allowed me to let go of the heaviness I had carried for years and, paradoxically, to feel lighter, even amidst grief.

The first lesson became clear: death is not just an ending; it’s a kind of cleansing. It strips away the noise, leaving only what truly matters. My father’s death revealed the fragility of our stories and the weight we carry from them—stories that often cloud our ability to fully see and feel love. These narratives, built over time, can create barriers that distance us from the deeper truths we hold within. Death asks us to release our illusions and focus on what remains—love, connection, and forgiveness.

In the months that followed, I entered my second dark night of the soul—a period of deep spiritual and existential crisis. This wasn’t an abstract confrontation with death; it was visceral and all-consuming. For nearly three months, I was convinced I was dying. Deep abdominal pains and an overwhelming fear of terminal illness took hold of my life. Anxiety gripped me, suffocating my energy and creativity. I couldn’t bear to look at my wife and children, tormented by the thought of leaving them behind. I was consumed by panic and death, unable to find relief from the overwhelming fear or see the beauty of life that still surrounded me.

Then, something shifted. Just a few days after New Year’s, I visited Dia Beacon, where I stood transfixed by a large installation of sweeping branches covered in metallic paint and lights. Suddenly, I realized that when I die, the energy within my body—the atoms that compose me—will persist in the universe. My physical form will decay, returning to the earth, but the elements that make up my body will continue, becoming part of new forms of life. This insight didn’t just calm my fears—it opened a door, allowing me to see beyond the limits of my mortality.

In the clarity that followed, I discovered another lesson: creation cannot emerge without confronting death. Standing at the edge of the void, something new can be born. In accepting my mortality—both its inevitability and proximity—something within me softened, creating space for something unexpected. Death strips away what no longer serves us, clearing the path for renewal. It wasn’t until I surrendered to death that I could receive what life was trying to show me.

The very next morning, standing at the kitchen sink, a question from beyond came to me: Why don’t we have decelerators? That question was the seed that became Downshift. It felt like a gift that had come through me, not from me. Without hesitation, visions came to me, and I knew exactly what to do, feeling as though every step in my life had led me to this point. I didn’t need validation or market research—the path forward was clear. It was a moment of deep alignment, where everything clicked into place.

The third lesson emerged: creation flows when we let go of control. The idea for Downshift didn’t come from analysis or effort, but from surrender. In making peace with death, I opened to new life. Clarity wasn’t something I forced; it was the natural result of letting go. I realized that our attempts to control outcomes often block the flow of what’s trying to emerge. When I surrendered to death, I opened the door to something greater, and Downshift took shape, fully formed, as if it had been waiting to come through me.

And now, at 45, I’ve come to understand that the life I want to build isn’t about more. It’s about embracing the full spectrum of what life offers—the beautiful and the painful, the joyful and the sorrowful. Death and creation aren’t opposing forces; they’re intertwined, each giving birth to the other. When we face our mortality and the impermanence of life, we begin to understand what it means to truly live. And when we create from that place—where death has left its mark—we build something that endures.

This year has taught me that death and creation are not opposites, but partners in the dance of life. They shape one another, each clearing the path for the other to emerge. When I faced death—both literal and symbolic—I learned to see it not as an end, but as a doorway to transformation. Destruction is not something to be feared, but honored, because it paves the way for new beginnings.

Creation, I’ve come to understand, doesn’t happen in isolation. It isn’t born from control or force, but from surrender—letting go of the stories, identities, and illusions that no longer serve us. It’s in the space left by those old patterns that something new, something alive, takes root. This year, I’ve witnessed how, in releasing my grip and accepting life’s fragility and fleeting nature, creativity flowed in unexpected ways. Downshift was born from this place of surrender—an offering that feels not like my own doing, but something I was called to bring into the world.

I honor both creation and destruction because they remind me of life’s cycles. There’s a season for growth, just as there’s a season for letting go. The ebb and flow of these forces is what makes life rich, what brings meaning to both our highest joys and deepest sorrows. At 45, I see the wisdom in embracing these cycles, in trusting that the endings we face are not failures, but necessary steps toward something more true, more aligned with who we are becoming.

Now as I step into my 46th year, I carry these lessons with me: that to truly live, we must let go. To create, we must first surrender. And that in every ending, there is the seed of a new beginning, waiting for its moment to bloom.