Lesson Twenty-Five: There Is No Tomorrow

I was watching Rocky III the other night, which is objectively the best of the franchise.

There is a scene in which Apollo Creed tries to light a fire under Rocky. Rocky, frustrated and tired, says something many of us have said before, “tomorrow.”

Apollo explodes.

There is no tomorrow! There is no tomorrow! THERE IS NO TOMORROW!

It is loud. It is dramatic. It feels like a line only meant for the movies.

But it’s not.

It is a truth we spend most of our lives avoiding.

We live as if tomorrow is guaranteed.

We delay the apology.

We delay the phone call.

We delay the trip.

We delay the hard conversation.

We delay the dream.

We tell ourselves we will start tomorrow.

Tomorrow feels safe. Tomorrow feels responsible. Tomorrow feels like there is still time.

But tomorrow is theoretical. Today is real. And even today is not guaranteed.

There is a podcast clip that circulated about a man who left for work angry at his wife. They had argued that morning. At work, he told his coworker that he would make it right when he got home. He would apologize tonight.

The coworker looked at him and said something that landed like a punch.

You are assuming you get tonight.

That sentence is uncomfortable because it is true.

We assume we get tonight.

We assume we get next week.

We assume we get next year.

We assume we get another chance.

And many people have had that same thought and never got to follow through.

Because a lot of people have woken up in old age with the realization that the odds of tomorrow really are no longer in their favor, yet they had so many things they failed to do or say.

Here is the part that unsettles me even more.

Every one of us will experience something for the last time.

The last time you pick your child up.

The last time your father calls you.

The last time your mother hosts Christmas.

The last time you play the game.

The last time you stand at a starting line.

And most of the time, you will not know it is the last time while you are in it.

There will be no announcement.

No slow music playing in the background.

No voice saying, “This is it.”

It will just happen.

And you will move on.

Many of us already have.

We have already had our last pickup basketball game.

Our last day running pain-free without thinking about it.

Our last summer when everyone was still under one roof.

Our last conversation with someone we loved.

We just did not know it.

That is the part that shakes me.

Jesse Itzler talks about this in a way that reframes everything. He popularized the idea of counting summers. If your parents are in their mid-seventies and you see them once a year, how many visits are realistically left?

Ten?

Fifteen if you are fortunate?

He says to stop counting your years and start counting your summers.

When you do the math, it is sobering.

If you see them once a year, you might have a dozen more dinners.

A dozen more hugs.

A dozen more chances to sit across the table and ask questions you have never asked.

That is not a lot.

If you take one big family vacation each year with your kids, how many are left before they are too old, too busy, too independent to want to go?

Maybe ten?

Maybe fewer?

If you only go to one game a season.

If you only schedule one trip.

If you only make one visit.

You are not dealing in abundance.

You are dealing in handfuls.

And we still say tomorrow.

We will call tomorrow.

We will forgive tomorrow.

We will go next season.

We will book the trip next year.

We will fix it later.

But injuries happen.

Diagnoses happen.

Airplanes crash.

Hearts stop.

People move.

Seasons change.

And sometimes the “next time” never comes.

As a father, this lands harder than anything else.

There will be a last time I carry my child.

A last time they fall asleep on my chest.

A last time they ask me to read one more book.

I will not know it when it happens.

One night, I will put them down and never pick them up that way again.

One day, they will go ahead and not look back.

That day will not feel dramatic.

It will feel ordinary.

And that is what makes it dangerous.

Faith does not remove this urgency. It sharpens it.

If life is a gift, then time is sacred.

If time is sacred, then delay is not neutral.

It is a waste.

I do not want to stand at the true finish line one day with a list of things I meant to do.

I do not want my children to remember a father who was always planning and rarely present.

I do not want my parents’ final years to be filled with “we should have.”

Apollo was right.

There is no tomorrow.

There is only this conversation.

This hug.

This apology.

This mile.

One day, there will truly be no tomorrow.

And on that day, intentions will not matter.

Only actions will.

So call.

Go.

Train.

Forgive.

Book it.

Say it.

Show up.

Because you do not know which time is the last time.

And that should move you.

Not tomorrow.

Now.