Death is always happening. It’s a natural part of life, and it comes for all of us. It doesn’t care who you are. But something shifts when the ones who shaped your youth—those icons who felt larger than life—begin to go. Especially when they live full lives and pass away of old age. It doesn’t feel tragic. It feels… sobering.

It doesn’t make me sad. It makes me reflect. It pulls me into a kind of inventory, a quiet audit of my own life. What am I doing with the time I have left? Where is it going? Who am I spending it with?

For me, Hulk Hogan was one of those larger-than-life figures. When my dad passed away at a young age, I clung to pop culture for grounding. Hulk was at the top of that list. He stood for strength, charisma, the hero archetype. And Ozzy Osbourne—man, the first cassette single I ever bought was Mama, I’m Coming Home. I was maybe eight or nine. My grandparents took me to Hastings in Spokane and let me choose one tape. That was the one. It stuck.

These aren’t just celebrity deaths. They’re reminders—timelines of our own lives. These people were part of our emotional upbringing. And when they pass, it doesn’t bury that part of us; it resurrects it. It reminds us of how fragile all of this is.

So when I hear news like that, I pause. I reassess. Am I spending enough time with my family? With my spouse? With my kids? Am I pouring into the people who pour back—or am I wasting time chasing validation where none is coming?

And no, this reflection isn’t about becoming a people-pleaser. It’s about becoming at peace—with who you are, and who you allow around you. It’s about going deeper where it counts, and letting go where it doesn’t.

Maybe that’s family. Maybe that’s your closest friends. Maybe it’s your job. Whatever it is—stack yourself thick where it matters most.

For me, it’s Sarah. It’s my children. It’s my friends, my crew, my work. It’s even those side loves that bring joy—like Buffalo Bills football or fantasy leagues. I really do love what I do. I run a company I care about. I create. I lead. And I know how rare it is to say: I love my job.

But it didn’t happen by chance. I took the leap. I bet on myself. I walked away from safe and toward meaningful. That came with risk—but also reward.

So here’s to the future. Here’s to the recalibrations, the audits, the wake-up calls. Maybe this hits someone else where it needs to. If it does, I’m glad.

This is just my story.

Cheers.