It’s a warm dusk in Austin, and I’m sitting on the patio of my 14th-floor apartment, watching the sun melt behind the hills to the west. Tugboat—my corgi and self-appointed ruler of personal space—is uncharacteristically close, snoring softly in the chair beside me. Usually, he disappears in the evenings, nesting in the closet like some antisocial king. But lately, he sticks close. Not on me—God forbid—but near. And I wonder if he knows something.
When I first started chemo, he wanted nothing to do with me. He practically begged to stay with my friends Vince and Janice one floor down. When I brought him home, he sat at the door and cried to go back. I don’t blame him. He knows what’s off, what’s heavy. Maybe he didn’t want to be near it then. Maybe he does now.
Dogs are weird like that—instinctive in ways we don’t always get. I’ve read stories of pets sensing things before their humans ever do. Lately, I find myself thinking about mortality more than I used to. Not because I think I’m going to die. I don’t. I believe I’ll get through this. But if I said I didn’t sometimes ask myself what if—I’d be lying.
This isn’t me being pessimistic. It’s just… real. I know some folks will want to stop reading here or think, “Aaron, don’t go there.” But naming a fear doesn’t make it stronger. It just makes it less lonely.
For the first time in my life, I’m writing a will. I’ve got a meeting on the books next week. It feels absurd—like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s grown-up clothes. I don’t have a ton, but I’m leaving it to my older brother—not to inherit everything, but to decide what should be done with it all. If there’s anyone I trust to be thoughtful and grounded, it’s him. He’s always had this quiet maturity—never shaken, never overrun by emotion, just clear-headed and calm in the moments that matter most. That kind of wisdom doesn’t come from age alone. It’s just who he is. We’re wired differently, but I’ve always respected the hell out of that.
I’ve also found myself thinking about regret—not the kind that clings to me now, but the kind that might visit me at the end, whenever that is. My buddy Dean and I have been talking a lot lately, sparked by a book we’re reading called Dying with Zero. The big idea? Spend your time, money, and love now—on the people who matter. Don’t hoard it all for some mythical “later.”
That stuck with me. Giving is my love language. Not in some big, flashy, rom-com kind of way, but in real, grounded moments: shared meals, thoughtful gifts, showing up when it matters. That book put words to something I’ve always believed deep down. Dean and I have half-joked, half-planned an adventure for next year: bespoke linen suits, his ‘65 Cobra, and some winding roads through Europe. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe it won’t. But dreaming about it feels better than saving for a day that might not come.
As the sun fully disappears and the stillness settles in, I realize what I do want to leave behind. Not a legacy. Not a name carved into anything. Just something that helps people who are walking through what I’m walking through now.
That’s why I’ve been working on an idea for an app.
It started small—a sketch on a napkin, a note in my phone. The idea is to guide people through the overwhelming, silent moments of a medical crisis—especially cancer, but really any serious health issue. Those moments between the doctor visits and the scans, when fear creeps in and clarity is nowhere to be found. The late-night questions. The early-morning uncertainty. The times when you don’t even know what to ask.
My brother has been that guide for me—a literal geneticist with world-class oncology contacts. Not everyone has that. But maybe they could have a digital version. Something human. Something steady. Something that says, “Here’s what you might be feeling. Here’s what you can ask. Here’s what you can do.”
It’s still early. I’ve roped in friends who are smarter than me, better developers, more creative minds. It’ll take time. But if we do it right, it might be just enough for someone going through this without the support system I’ve been lucky to have. A kind of scaffolding. A poor man’s roadmap. A lifeline, even.
The app won’t cure anything. But it might keep someone from crumbling under the weight of not knowing where to turn next.
The sun is gone now. Tugboat is still snoring. And my brain is sketching user flows and edge cases, thinking about how this thing could work, what it might do, who it might help. That’s how I know I’m going to be okay. As long as I can turn pain into purpose, I’ve got more left to give.
I don’t need to be remembered. But I do need to help someone before I go.
That, I think, is why I’m going to be around for a while.