“Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing.” — Seneca

Mortality Isn’t Morbid—It’s Motivating

The Stoics had a wonderfully grounded relationship with death. Not fearful. Not dramatic. Just practical. In fact, at Roman victory feasts, while generals were being showered with praise, a servant would whisper in their ear: Memento mori. Remember you must die. It wasn’t a warning—it was a compass. Modern voices echo the same clarity. Steve Jobs famously said:

“Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose.”

Death strips away illusion. What you own, what others think, even your five-year plan—it all recedes. What’s left is this: Are you doing what matters?

Psychologists call this mortality salience—awareness of death that, when held lightly, actually boosts gratitude and presence. It’s not grim; it’s galvanising. A reminder that time is not a given—and that truth, joy, and purpose are worth pursuing now, not when life finally slows down (spoiler: it won’t).

Your Essential Self Knows the Way

Martha Beck, in Finding Your Own North Star, offers a beautiful framework: we all have two selves. The Social Self knows how to fit in. It joins committees, returns emails, keeps the peace. But the Essential Self—that’s the one who sings badly in the car, dreams in colour, and knows what lights us up.

The Essential Self doesn’t wait for permission. It dares. It wants to climb the hill, take the trip, start the project that makes no financial sense but all the soul-sense in the world. When we ignore that part of ourselves, we shrink. And when we honour it—however clumsily—we come alive.

Transformation isn’t tidy. Like the caterpillar in its chrysalis, it requires total dissolution before rebirth. And the struggle? That’s not just symbolic—it’s vital. It’s what strengthens the wings. If you try and shortcut the struggle, by helping the butterfly for example, it dies prematurely. The struggle is necessary.

You don’t need to change continents. Maybe you need to join a choir. Say something honest. Learn something impractical. The point isn’t scale—it’s alignment. With who you are inside.

Novelty Stretches Time (and Wakes You Up)

Ever noticed how the years feel shorter as you get older? That’s not just perception—it’s neuroscience. Our brains compress repetitive experiences into fuzzy summaries. Monday becomes indistinguishable from Wednesday, and poof—there goes another month.

But novelty interrupts that blur. A new route. A different café. A spontaneous conversation with a stranger. These moments stand out, anchoring us in the now. This means if life feels like it’s racing by, the antidote isn’t necessarily more time—it’s new time. Unfamiliar, unscripted moments that stretch the clock and shake us awake.

Even psychology backs this up. Our minds build schemas—mental shortcuts for repeated experiences—but it’s novelty that tells the brain: pay attention, this matters. Which is why the oddest, most memorable days often feel the longest. They’re vivid. Alive. And they remind us we are too.

You Don’t Need a Grand Exit—Just a Present One

After the funeral of a colleague who never got the retirement adventure he’d longed for, something snapped in me. Or maybe it awakened. I didn’t want to wait until it was “the right time.” So I drew a joy map on my kitchen wall with a giant flipchart. No words—just sketches of what stirred something in me: an elephant, a motorbike, a boat. The Panama Canal. Stars.

That led me to Death Valley on a red Indian Scout I had no business riding. I was scared, underprepared, and dehydrated to the point of tears. But I kept going — thanks to the kindness of strangers and an ex-Navy diver who reminded me that courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s just plain stubborn. The words he used to jolt me back into gear were something his gran used to say: “A faint heart never fcked a crocodile.” Yes, his gran had a remarkable way with words.

From there came oceans, constellations, folk songs under the stars, and a growing sense that this was life. Not perfect. But vivid. And mine.

Adventure, I learned, isn’t reserved for the wealthy or the brave. It’s claimed by those willing to act. To dare. To admit that death isn’t the end of the road—it’s the reminder to use it well.

So… What Are You Waiting For?

Most of us live like we have a guaranteed lease on the future. But we don’t. The clock is ticking—not to panic us, but to remind us that each morning is non-refundable.

The real tragedy isn’t that we die. It’s that we wait. So stop. Ask yourself—what would I do differently if I remembered I was mortal?

Would I be braver? Quieter? Louder? Kinder?

You don’t have to quit your job or sell everything you own. But you do have to stop postponing what matters. Because death, when used wisely, isn’t a thief. It’s a teacher.

It reminds us that life isn’t something to get through. It’s something to lean into. With both hands.

So live now. Live wide. Live true.

Until next time,
Louisa (The Existential Biker)

Time is short. Don’t waste the ride.

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This is the fourth in a ten-part series exploring Stoic wisdom through the lens of two wheels. Read the full series or pre-order the book below:

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