I’m a big UFC fan. I’ve been watching for years, cheering for my favorites like Rich Franklin (who doesn’t love a high school math teacher who does MMA?), Benson Henderson, Max Holloway, and Alexander Volkanovski.
One thing I especially enjoy is the walkout music each fighter chooses. Their selections say a lot about who they are and what’s important to them. I always got goosebumps when Ben walked out to Our God is an Awesome God, and I still giggle when Aussie Volk struts out to Down Under.
I think some words matter enough to deserve their own walkout music, too.
If you haven’t yet followed Karena De Souza and her Tilt the Future Substack, you’re missing out. Each post, replete with data and keen insight, is a gift. But her past few posts have transcended gift. They are poster children for generosity.
Karena’s dear mother passed away from cancer recently. It was sudden and painful and tragic, yet there was beauty in the tragedy, as nearly her entire family gathered in India to pay homage to this amazing woman.
I remember when my mother died. It wasn’t sudden—it was expected. She’d been diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia ten years earlier, given a four-year window to live. Yet even the blessing of having her live for ten years didn’t prepare me for the gut-wrenching loss. I had a flight going to California the next day—I missed her by hours. That afternoon, I remember going outdoors and being astonished to hear birds singing. How can you sing? Don’t you know my mother has died? Later that week, I went to Starbucks and was likewise amazed that people could sit and chat while sipping their lattes. I wanted to shout in the café: Don’t you know my mother has died? I had no emotional room for anyone other than myself, my brother, and my dad.
But that’s not Karena.
In the midst of her grief, Karena has written to us. She has crafted posts meant to prepare us for our own grief—for our own need to care one day for a loved one who is failing. It is pure, incomparable generosity.
I love words. I write about them each week, yet words fail me when I consider the breathtaking kindness of Karena’s posts. And I wonder, because words matter so very much, perhaps some words deserve their own walkout music, a backdrop that illuminates their deepest, most profound meaning.
What might I appoint to generosity?
Perhaps this.
Today, I am 62 and a half years old. There are far fewer days ahead of me than behind, and I am keen to make them count. Let me live a life of generosity, a life that honors my mother and my friend.
Will you join me? Let’s earn our walkout music.
Very humbled to be a part of your essay this week, Cindy. I turned to tell my Mom ' "see what Cindy wrote this week!" and then it hit me.
I'm feeling a little We were lucky to have our mother for 5 decades. Others may not be so lucky. So I thought I would share the lessons we are learning to offer others a few extra moments at a crucial time.
You were equally generous with your timely advice to me "Don't rob yourself of a single second that you have left with her stage-managing someone else's grief." Thanks to that amazing advice I was able to cherish every minute of her quicker than expected exit.
"It takes a village."
PS. "Ode to Joy" was what we walked out to after our wedding! A favourite of mine and my mother's. I feel she is smiling in heaven!
I've always loved the Sabadell flashmob playing/singing 'Ode to Joy'. Yes to walkout music!