Life: The Marathon, The Privilege

December 4, 2025

Writer: Tyler Peterson

Editor: Sammy Sloggoff

A few weeks ago, I got the news. First, I saw it: a social media post that said “gone too soon.” Then the messages started flooding in. Painful exchanges between me and people I hadn’t spoken to in years. I sat at my desk, laptop open, paused on a class lecture that seemed all too unimportant now. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel right or fair. All I could do was stare off into the distance. 

This was new to me; I’d never had anyone close to me pass away before—save for a great-grandparent here and there, the kind of loss you’re almost too young to understand. But this was different. This was someone my age. Someone I shared memories with. Someone I thought I’d see again, at my hometown grocery store or bar during holiday break. Someone who was supposed to keep living alongside all of us. 

There’s a before and after to a moment like that, when the post appeared, the messages poured in, and suddenly the world felt unfamiliar. Before, you’re stressed about deadlines, annoyed by your alarm, and debating whether to cook dinner or to DoorDash something for convenience. After, those things suddenly harbor a feeling of utter strangeness; like you’re abruptly detached from your body, peering in on your own life. The loss of a friend shifted something in me that I didn’t even know could move. Ordinary life, once solid, suddenly felt fragile. Things you once rushed through without second thought now seize your attention. The way sunlight hits your steering wheel when you’re trying to speed through traffic. The conversations with your roommates before you head out and dart to the class you’re late to. How waking up confused or tired doesn’t feel like a burden anymore—it feels like a privilege. All of these shifts create new, glaring road signs, signaling the opportunity to try again.

I’ve come to know grief as a strange phenomenon –-one that rearranges your perspective without permission. It makes you softer in some places and sharper in others. I feel more protective of my time now. I am more intentional with the people in my life. More aware of everything’s temporary state, even the parts I had assumed were everlasting. I’ve started noticing the tiny details—the ones I used to blow past without thinking. The way my friends laugh when they’re half asleep. The way my dad says, “drive safe,” no matter what. The way a room feels when someone I love walks into it. It all feels heavier and lighter at the same time, like someone quietly turned up the volume on the world.

I used to see life as one, tiring, never-ending marathon. Now I’m starting to realize how lucky I am to participate–luckier still if I make it to the finish line one day. 

His death reminded me that the middle—the messy, confusing, unglamorous middle is the whole point. The late-night conversations. The quiet mornings. The inside jokes. The days when nothing extraordinary happens except that you lived them. I’m not trying to be profound. I’m just trying to pay attention, to stay awake to my own life, and to love people as loud as I can while they’re still here. Now, when I think about the marathon of life, I’m not staring down the daunting, long stretch ahead. I’m looking at the people running beside me; the ones with water in hand when I need it, the ones who match my pace without asking.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not running out of fear. I’m running out of gratitude.