Living While Dying

Living While Dying Thom's mission is to inspire others to embrace life fully despite the challenges of illness.

Through honest exploration and positivity, Thom seeks to offer support and motivation, celebrating courage and zest in navigating life's toughest challenges. Living Life Press is a publishing and media entity dedicated to raising awareness about prostate cancer through storytelling, speaking engagements, and multimedia. Founded by Thom Barrett, a best-selling author and stage IV prostate cancer th

river, Living Life Press focuses on sharing personal experiences, providing education, and inspiring hope for those affected by prostate cancer. Through books, podcasts, and public speaking, Living Life Press seeks to foster open conversations about men's health, highlight the importance of early detection and research, and encourage individuals to live life fully, even in the face of illness. All proceeds from the business’s endeavors go directly to support cancer research and awareness campaigns.

I used to worry about controlling what would be left of me, what traces, what stories, what lessons might remain. Now, I...
12/04/2025

I used to worry about controlling what would be left of me, what traces, what stories, what lessons might remain. Now, I'm learning the grace of letting go. There's beauty in continuity without curation, in trusting that what matters will persist even without my oversight. This isn't resignation; it's a kind of peace.

Legacy, in the end, is less about being remembered and more about being part of something ongoing, something that breathes and moves beyond my imagination.

A few weeks ago, my college roommates came to help with a project, just as they did last year. My old nickname, Irrational Man, came up more than once. It fit then, and if I'm honest, it still does: that balance of methodical and unbalanced, of intellect and raw physical drive. Their laughter carried me back, but it also reminded me that who we are at the core doesn't really change. They still see the same person, curious, restless, a little over-engineered. And that, strangely, feels like its own kind of legacy.

Memory doesn't belong solely to me. It lives, in fragments and variations, within others. And there's joy in that, in knowing that the connections we forge keep breathing long after the moment has passed.

My book The Edge of Now explores the topic of living fully in the face of mortality in depth. You can get a copy on Amazon (link in bio) or at your preferred retailer.

This year wasn't easy. But it was full. And fullness comes from connection. When I look back on 2025, what rises isn't t...
12/02/2025

This year wasn't easy. But it was full. And fullness comes from connection. When I look back on 2025, what rises isn't the heaviness, though there were days that carried real weight, but the light that kept showing up in conversations, shared meals, travel companions, laughter, kindness, and the ordinary grace of being welcomed into other people's worlds. Joy wasn't luck. Joy was community. And God, was there a lot of it.

The year began with something as mundane as window replacements. But once the new bay windows were in, the house felt different, alive. The backyard shifted week by week: winter woods, early buds, the morning chorus gathering at the feeders, light moving across the room like a slow dance. I didn't expect windows to bring joy. But they did. Every single morning.

Sitting with Annika, sharing a cup of coffee, reading, watching the ballet at the bird feeder, those mornings felt like someone, or something, was watching over us. Joy wasn't something I had to chase. It came to the table. It sat beside me. It raised its arms, laughed loudly, and said: here, now, with you.

As December begins, I'm reflecting on how joy rarely arrives with fireworks. More often it shows up quietly, through people, through presence, through the unexpected ways our lives intersect and support each other.

What small moments of connection brought you unexpected joy this year?

"As I reach the narrowing edge of time, I find myself hoping, quietly, that I've helped someone along the way. Maybe thr...
11/27/2025

"As I reach the narrowing edge of time, I find myself hoping, quietly, that I've helped someone along the way. Maybe through tough love, or a steady example. Maybe just by showing that life is richer when you pause long enough to listen, to breathe, to notice what's already here."

I have written books: some that seem to have helped. You never really know the impact. They grew out of my own reckoning with cancer, an attempt to show that a full life is still possible. I've heard from readers, from mentees, thanks for staying in touch, for listening, for pushing them a little harder.

I used to worry about controlling what would be left of me, what traces, what stories, what lessons might remain. Now, I'm learning the grace of letting go. There's beauty in continuity without curation, in trusting that what matters will persist even without my oversight. This isn't resignation; it's a kind of peace.

Legacy, in the end, is less about being remembered and more about being part of something ongoing, something that breathes and moves beyond my imagination.

On this Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for the grace of letting go. For the people who carry fragments of me forward. For the stories that shift and reshape in the telling.

I used to think legacy was about preservation, sealing the past like rare books in a glass case. Experience has taught m...
11/25/2025

I used to think legacy was about preservation, sealing the past like rare books in a glass case. Experience has taught me otherwise. The living archive is not a static vault, but a current that flows through participation, use, and engagement. The true measure of what endures is not what is kept pristine, but what is picked up, reshaped, and put to use by others.

I'm most moved when something I've let go, the tools, the ideas, even the mistakes, finds a place in someone else's hands. Legacy is circulation, not enclosure; it's the life breathed into shared work rather than the hushed reverence of preservation. The things I once tried so hard to control become most alive when set free.

If I've learned anything, it's that stories, especially those we hope will endure, are never fixed. They change, sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically, as they're retold and repurposed. Memory, it seems, is less a monument and more a mosaic: each recounting rearranges the pieces, making meaning anew.

There's beauty in continuity without curation, in trusting that what matters will persist even without my oversight. This isn't resignation; it's a kind of peace.

What are you holding too tightly that might flourish if you let it go?

"For the past few years, I've been working on what I call the Meditative Park. It began as an idea, a place of stillness...
11/20/2025

"For the past few years, I've been working on what I call the Meditative Park. It began as an idea, a place of stillness, somewhere others could come to breathe, reflect, and find peace along their own difficult paths. I suppose it started forming the day I learned I had stage IV cancer. I wanted my home to become, when I'm gone, a retreat for those walking the same uncertain ground."

The help I've had in building it has been remarkable. Last year it was the gazebo; this year, the start of a cabin and a few small bridges. My nephews and nieces, a brother, friends, neighbors, all of them have had a hand in shaping it. It's been less a project than a gathering, a quiet choreography of care.

The other night I looked out my window and saw a fire glowing in the gazebo. A small group of neighbors were there, talking softly, their laughter rising into the trees. I hadn't planned it, hadn't even known they were coming. But there it was: life unfolding within what we had built. It warmed me in a way I can't quite explain. The place had taken on its own pulse.

Maybe that's the truest form of legacy: when what you've made no longer needs you to keep breathing. When the spaces you've tended begin to tend others.

There are moments, rare and unheralded, when something I once said or did circles back to me, caught in a phrase or gest...
11/18/2025

There are moments, rare and unheralded, when something I once said or did circles back to me, caught in a phrase or gesture from another. It might be a half-remembered anecdote at a gathering, a familiar turn of speech, or even the echo of my own impatience in someone else's determination. These encounters are rarely grand; more often, they arrive gently, surprising me with a flicker of recognition. I'm reminded then that memory doesn't belong solely to me, it lives, in fragments and variations, within others.

I've never done anything with legacy in mind. I went about my life trying to do what felt right, for the moment, for my family, for my clients, for the firm. Rarely for myself. If legacy exists, it wasn't planned; it's whatever residue comes from meeting each situation with integrity. Looking back, I suppose the paths I didn't take say as much about me as the ones I did. The choices made for duty, not glory, are the ones that tend to last the longest.

My daughters would probably give opposite answers if you asked them what they remember most about me. One still jokes that traveling with me is a form of survival training. The other still sees every trip as an invitation to explore. Between them lies the truth of who I am: equal parts risk and wonder.

"Legacy is often mistaken for permanence, but in truth, it's closer to repetition. Continuity. A whisper passed through ...
11/13/2025

"Legacy is often mistaken for permanence, but in truth, it's closer to repetition. Continuity. A whisper passed through time rather than a shout meant to endure it. A hammer used in the same way, a song hummed in the kitchen, a story retold slightly differently each time. These small inheritances ask for no attention. They just keep doing their job."

Some legacies are made by hand. Others by habit. A neighbor who still checks on the old couple across the street because that's just what his father used to do. A garden kept growing because someone once knelt there in hope. And then there are the phrases that live in a household: "How about that," "I don't see why not," or "Put it on the list." I know exactly where they came from. Each time I use them, I remember who taught them to me, and I do so with fondness.

This is legacy as repetition, as rhythm, as quiet continuity. A hand-carved chair that still holds its shape. A toolbox passed down not for what's inside it, but for how often it was opened. These aren't keepsakes. They're kept in use. And that, in itself, is their power.

We often talk about legacy as something monumental: a finished book, a named building, a great act. But more and more, I...
11/11/2025

We often talk about legacy as something monumental: a finished book, a named building, a great act. But more and more, I find it in the things we touch without thinking. The way my daughters instinctively prepare before starting anything: laying out the materials, organizing the space, or anticipating the next step. They may not fold towels the way I do, but they know the rhythm of readiness. The unseen order that lets things go right. That quiet instinct is part of a lineage too.

I walk through my home and see these echoes. A table built decades ago that still hosts meals and mail. The gazebo in the woods, now weathering its second autumn. I look out from the house some nights and see a fire going, people sitting around it, talking, laughing, sharing time. That, to me, is one of the clearest forms of legacy, something made with love that continues to hold space for others.

We rarely know which gestures will linger. We don't get to decide what others carry forward. But we can be deliberate with what we offer. What small acts of care are you offering now that might bloom in someone else's life later?

"The gazebo started as a sketch and became a gathering. Brothers, nieces, and college friends arrived. We measured, laug...
11/06/2025

"The gazebo started as a sketch and became a gathering. Brothers, nieces, and college friends arrived. We measured, laughed, and argued over angles. For a few days, the air was full of sawdust and companionship. What stands now isn't just a structure. It's a record of time shared and care offered."

More recently, the work has grown more communal. The meditation park carries that thread forward: benches tucked into quiet corners, small bridges spanning koi ponds, paths made for slowing down. I don't see these places as things I built. I see them as invitations. Maybe that's what truly endures: the invitation to pause, to gather, to breathe.

Some of what I've built was never meant for me to see again. The Habitat projects come to mind: walls raised for someone I'll never meet, homes framed with care and then left behind. Still, I imagine what might unfold within them: a child's laughter echoing down the hallway, dinners shared, reconciliations made, birthdays marked with cake and light. All of it sheltered by something I helped shape. That, too, is lasting, a quiet warmth passed forward.

A concept from my latest book The Edge of Now: A Journey of Mindfulness, Acceptance and Adventure. Available (in the link in my bio) and in fine retailers worldwide.

The smell of sawdust still catches me off guard. It drifts in like memory, faint, familiar, grounding. Every project beg...
11/04/2025

The smell of sawdust still catches me off guard. It drifts in like memory, faint, familiar, grounding. Every project begins that way, with the scent of beginnings disguised as dust.

I've spent a lifetime building, sometimes with my hands, sometimes with words, and sometimes with nothing but the quiet hope that effort itself was enough.

When I build, it's rarely for myself. The act feels more like translation, taking what's raw and asking what story it still wants to tell. Every plank and beam has a past: nail holes from another era, rust stains where water lingered too long, grain lines that still remember the wind. My job is to listen, to shape something that lets that history keep breathing.

Most of what I make finds its way into other people's lives. A desk for my daughter. A carving for a friend. A box or table that slips away once it's done. I used to think that meant loss, that the work had left me. But I've come to see it differently: meaning lives in use. In touch. In continuation. When my daughter sits at her desk, or a friend walks past that picture frame, a quiet echo of me lingers. Not out of vanity, but as a connection made tangible.

As I explore what it means to leave a legacy of light, I have been thinking about the quiet ways our work continues after we set it down. What are your hands shaping that others might one day carry forward?

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