If I Had One Wish If I had one wish, I would not wish for a life without sorrow, because some of the deepest parts of me were introduced to me by pain.

If I Had One Wish If I had one wish, I would not wish for a life without sorrow, because some of the deepest parts of me were introduced to me by pain. I would not wish to undo every mistake. There are roads I would never walk again, but I cannot deny where they carried me. I would not ask for everyone I loved to stay. Some people were only meant to be chapters, and I have learned that something can end without having been meaningless. If I had one wish, I would not ask to know what happens tomorrow. Perhaps uncertainty is what makes today precious. Perhaps we cherish sunsets because the light does not negotiate its departure. No— If I had one wish, I would ask for the wisdom to recognize my life while I am living it. To know when I am standing inside a moment I will someday miss. To linger a little longer at the table. To listen when someone I love is speaking. To take the photograph. To make the journey. To say I love you before life turns it into something I wish I had said. I would ask to stop postponing happiness until everything makes sense. Because perhaps life was never meant to make perfect sense. Perhaps it was meant to be touched, questioned, tasted, lost, rediscovered— and lived. So if I had one wish, I think I would wish for no wish at all. Only the courage to look at this imperfect, temporary, astonishing life and realize: I am already standing inside something I once wished for.