What Makes a Life Worth Living?

A life of obedience and regret vs. joy and aliveness

I woke up this morning thinking about something my grandmother said to me recently, and it wouldn’t let go.

My grandmother is 90 years old.
Her health is declining quickly.
Some days she’s lucid. Other days she has no idea where she is, what she’s doing, or why.

My mom is the only family member nearby, so she’s been carrying most of the weight of caring for her. Seeing how much it’s taken out of her, I offered to help when I could. For the last five months, I’ve been going over in the evenings—making sure my grandmother eats, taking her pills, sitting with her for a while.

One night, we were talking about my youngest son.

I was telling her how he’s doing.
Showing her pictures.
Sharing little moments—his expressions, his presence, the way he experiences the world.

My son has special needs.
He was diagnosed with autism and cerebral palsy at a year and a half.
He’s nonverbal.
Low muscle tone.

We were told early on that he would likely never develop a mindset beyond that of a three-year-old.

As I was talking, my grandmother looked at me—flat, expressionless—and said:

“What a waste of a life.”

It hit me hard.

Not because she was trying to be cruel.
Not because there was malice behind it.

But because of what that sentence revealed.

My son is 11 years old now.

No, he isn’t like other kids.
No, he will never get to do many of the things “normal” kids do.
No, he will likely never have a job or “contribute to the economy” in the way society expects.

But he is genuinely happy.

He wakes up every day with a smile,

Without anxiety.
Without dread.
Without shame about who he is.

He approaches the world with a childlike innocence and openness.
Curiosity.
Presence.

He experiences joy without needing permission.

Standing there in that moment, something became painfully clear to me:

My grandmother spent nearly 90 years of her life believing that none of that mattered.

Not laughter,

Not joy.
Not curiosity.
Not aliveness.

She did what was expected.

Married young.
Stayed in her lane.
Never asked what she truly wanted.

She never went after what she desired.

Rarely smiled with no sense of excitement.
Never built a life she consciously chose.
She simply lived the one she was given.

She survived — but she never actually lived.

She worked a series of dead-end jobs.
No sense of progress.
No sense of pride.

There were no deep friendships.
No real social life.
No moments she looked forward to.

Very early on, joy became something she distrusted.
Curiosity felt dangerous.
Aliveness felt irresponsible.

So she traded them for certainty.

She believed authority knew better than she did.
That the government would protect her.
That the media told the truth.
That questioning was risky.

Thinking for herself never became a muscle.
Standing up for herself never became a skill.

And slowly, something hardened.

Resentment replaced warmth.
Superiority replaced connection.
Criticism became safer than vulnerability.

Not because she was cruel —
but because bitterness is often what remains when a life goes unlived.

And now, at the end of her life, what remains isn’t wisdom.

It isn’t peace.

It’s sadness, fear, and loneliness.
Confusion because she thought she was doing the right thing.
This is the weight of a life spent obeying rules and never thinking for yourself. 

And the same narrow definition of value and worthiness she lived by for nine decades.

So when she said, “What a waste of a life,” about my son…

I realized something that broke my heart open.

She wasn’t describing him.

She was revealing the tragedy of her own life.

Because if value is defined only by productivity…
By obedience…
By fitting into systems you never chose…

Then yes—my son makes no sense.

But if value is measured by presence,
by love and joy,
by being alive without apology…

Then my son is rich beyond measure.

And maybe the real waste of a life isn’t someone who never fit into the world’s systems—

But someone who spent 90 years never questioning whether those systems were worth their soul.

That realization stayed with me.

Not with anger.

With grief.
And with clarity.

Lying awake after that moment, I kept thinking about something else.

Before I left Florida, I was staying at a vacation resort.
Lots of older people. Retirees. End-of-the-road energy.

And at least once a week, an elderly woman would stop me.

They’d smile.
Shake their head.
And say things like:

“I just love your energy.”
“You’re so playful.”
“You remind me of how people used to be.”

“If only more people in the world lived the way you do, this world would be a much more beautiful place.”

It happened over and over again.

And every time, I felt the same quiet ache.

Because what they were responding to wasn’t success.
Or money.
Or power or status.

It was aliveness.

A childlike presence.
Laughter.

Curiosity.
Acceptance of what is, without apology.

The same thing my son experiences daily, the little boy who is disconnected from the modern world. 

And it made me wonder how many of them once had that too—
before life sucked it out of them.

Before responsibility turned into resignation.
Before safety replaced truth.
Before obedience became mistaken for virtue.

Which brings me to the question I want to leave you with:

By whose definition are you living your life?

What do you believe makes a life well-lived? And would you think the same on your deathbed? 

What do you quietly fear would make it a wasted life?

Is it productivity?
Security?
Approval?
Being seen as “useful”?

Or is it presence?
Laughter and Joy?
Freedom?
Feeling alive in your own skin?

Because if you don’t consciously define what true value and worth mean to you,
you will absorb the world’s definitions by default.

And one day, you may realize you spent decades optimizing for things
that never allowed you to live at all.

That’s the real danger.

Not failure.
Not struggle.

But waking up at the end of your life, realizing you spent it playing a zero-sum game — and you were never the winner.

— Cory Skyy

If you’re ready to stop living on autopilot, it's not too late to begin living.