You Only Get Each Day Once

I buried a friend last week. Chris.

He was one of those people who seemed to have been put on this planet just to remind the rest of us how narrow and unimaginative we are by default. A designer. A musician. A fucking machine with a modular synth. He could do things with sound and shape that most of us can’t even explain, let alone replicate. He was also—more importantly—funny, kind, and the sort of human being who made a room better just by walking into it.

And now he’s gone.

The thing about funerals is they pull you out of autopilot. Most days we slog through routines, small fires, inboxes, rotas, pointless meetings, beers that blur together, and burgers that go out the pass until it all feels like one continuous shift. Funerals smash that. They remind you: this is finite. You don’t get forever. You don’t even get later. You only get today.

That’s a line I’ve carried with me for years: you only get each day once.

You don’t get to re-run the tape. You don’t get a do-over. Yesterday is gone, sealed in amber. Today is all you’ve got, and tomorrow isn’t promised.

Chris, and people like Chris, shaped me when I was younger. Not in obvious, careerist ways. More like… they cracked my head open and poured something in. Music, art, a way of seeing the world that wasn’t about the grind or the next payday. That kind of influence bleeds through you forever. Even if you haven’t shared a beer in years, the echo’s still in your bones. And if you’re lucky, it pushes you to build a business—or a life—that isn’t just about survival, but about doing something interesting.

But here’s the rub: life is short, but it isn’t just about running flat-out, either. That urgency—the ticking clock—can trick you into thinking you need to say yes to everything, burn yourself to the wick, prove something to somebody who doesn’t care. That’s a different kind of death.

The real lesson, and the one Chris leaves me with, is balance. Do the thing. Say yes to the adventure. Build the bar, write the riff, take the trip, kiss the person. But also—pause. Sit still long enough to let the good stuff soak in. Because the days don’t come back around.

So: here’s my advice, offered with the bluntness that funerals force on you.

Stop waiting.

Stop saving the good whiskey for the “right occasion.”

Stop telling yourself you’ll do it when things settle down. They won’t.

Make the call. Write the song. Open the bar. Walk away from the meeting that drains your soul. Laugh harder. Sleep in sometimes. Hug your kids.

You only get each day once.

Chris lived like that. And if we’re paying attention, so should we.