Prepared for the Fall

Several years ago, I wrote my eulogy.

Not because I was morbid.
Not because I was giving up.
But because I wanted a compass.

I wasn’t trying to predict how my life would turn out. I was trying to decide (before the fog rolled in) who I wanted to be when the trail got hard, the weather turned, and the map stopped making sense.

What I wrote became something like a vision board, though quieter and far less performative. It wasn’t about success or achievement. It was about how the people closest to me would remember being with me.

Over time, I realized something important:

I wasn’t writing about death.
I was writing about alignment.

The Difference Between a Map and a Compass

Maps are useful; until the terrain changes.

Anyone who’s spent time hiking or climbing knows this. Trails wash out. Storms roll in. Sometimes the route you planned simply isn’t passable anymore. In those moments, obsessing over the original map doesn’t help.

What helps is a compass.

A compass doesn’t tell you where you are.
It tells you which way is north.

That’s what my eulogy became.

Not a standard I had to live up to; but a direction I could return to.

This is also one of the central ideas in Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT): the goal isn’t to eliminate discomfort, but to increase our ability to keep choosing behavior “in the service of… chosen values.”

Preparedness Isn’t the Same as Expecting to Fall

When I go hiking or rock climbing, I carry a single 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper folded neatly in my pack.

On it is all my vital information: my age, blood type, date of birth, etc. Where I parked my car. What my car looks like. There’s even a QR code that links to my brother (my emergency contact) so that if something goes wrong, someone knows who I am and who to call.

I don’t carry that sheet because I want to fall.

I carry it because mountains are honest places.

You can do everything right and still slip. Weather changes. Footing shifts. Bodies fail. Preparedness isn’t pessimism; it’s respect for reality.

And here’s the surprising part:
That sheet doesn’t make me anxious on the trail.

It actually frees me.

Because when the what-ifs are accounted for, I can be more present. I can climb with focus instead of fear. I can move forward knowing that if I do get hurt, I won’t be anonymous, misunderstood, or alone.

Eventually, I realized my eulogy serves the same purpose.

The Eulogy as Emotional Emergency Information

Writing my eulogy wasn’t about anticipating failure. It was about making sure that if I lost my footing (emotionally, relationally, spiritually) I had something that could speak for me when clarity was gone.

That matters, because when stress spikes, our nervous systems shift into protection mode. Dan Siegel’s “window of tolerance” is often used to describe the zone where we can stay regulated enough to think clearly, relate well, and make wise choices. Outside that window, we tend toward reactivity, shutdown, or survival-driven behavior.

So the eulogy becomes a kind of preloaded instruction sheet for hard moments. It answers questions I might not be able to articulate when I’m flooded:

• Who am I trying to be?
  
• What matters most when things fall apart?
  
• How do I want to treat people when I’m tired, afraid, or wounded?
  

And it keeps me from being reduced to a bad moment, a reactive season, or a single misstep.

This also lines up with what we know about values-based action: when people act in ways that align with their values (especially on a day-to-day basis) it tends to track with better well-being and lower distress.

Vulnerability, Without Romanticizing It

A lot of what I wrote in my eulogy (especially for marriage and parenting) requires vulnerability. Not the curated kind. The costly kind.

Brené Brown defines vulnerability as: “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure.” 

That definition matters, because it reframes what so many of us fear. Vulnerability isn’t a personality trait. It’s a price of admission for real love, real friendship, real leadership, real parenting.

And if I’m honest? When I’m stressed, I don’t naturally drift toward vulnerability. I drift toward control, defensiveness, distance, or performance. That’s exactly why I wanted the eulogy in the first place: not as a badge, but as a bearing.

Turning an Eulogy Into a Daily Practice

The mistake we often make with values is treating them like a scorecard:

• Did I live up to this today?
  
• Did I fail again?
  
• What’s wrong with me?
  

That’s not how a compass works.

In ACT language, values are directions, not finish lines. Russ Harris puts it simply:

“Values are like a compass.” 

So I began integrating my eulogy into my journaling; not as judgment, but as orientation.

Step 1: Name the Terrain

First, I locate myself.

Am I on an open trail today?
A foggy ridge?
A steep, exhausting switchback?

(Translation: What’s my internal weather? How narrow is my window right now?)

I talk about the importance of this practice in the blog The Forecast Within.

Step 2: Tell the Truth Without Fixing It

Then I write what actually happened, unfiltered.

No moralizing.
No “shoulds.”
No rewriting history to sound noble.

Just honesty.

This is where I stop trying to be the hero of my own story and allow myself to be human.

Step 3: Check the Compass, Not the Grade

Only after the truth is on the page do I return to my eulogy and ask:

In this moment, which way was I facing?

Where did I move toward presence; even imperfectly?
Where did fear or self-protection pull me off course?

Step 4: Choose One Degree of Adjustment

Then I choose one small course correction for tomorrow. One degree.

There’s a reason “if-then plans” work so well in behavior change research: forming implementation intentions (“If X happens, then I will do Y”) reliably improves follow-through because it links a cue to a pre-decided response.

So instead of vague self-improvement promises, I’ll write something like:

• If I feel myself getting defensive in a conversation, then I will ask one clarifying question before I respond.
  
• If I’m overwhelmed when my kids are talking, then I will put my phone face-down and give them two minutes of full attention.
  
• If I’m tempted to shut down, then I will name one feeling out loud (even if it’s messy).
  

That’s not perfection. That’s navigation.

Why This Matters More Than Motivation

Motivation is weather-dependent.
Values are terrain-independent.

Steven C. Hayes (founder of ACT) captured it in a way that hits me like a clean gust on an exposed ridge:

“Values are not meant to be achieved; they are the compass that directs our choices, day by day.”

Writing my eulogy didn’t make life easier.

It made it truer.

A Reader Exercise: Your Emotional Emergency Card

If you want to try this yourself, don’t start with perfection. Start with preparedness.

Imagine you’re creating an emotional emergency card; something that could speak for you if you lost your footing.

In your journal, answer these prompts:

1. When I’m overwhelmed or hurt, I want people to remember that I am someone who…
   (How do you want to be known in strain, not success?)
   
2. The people closest to me should feel _________ when they are with me.
   (Safe. Seen. Encouraged. Free. Respected.)
   
3. When I drift, the values I want to return to are…
   (Choose 3–5. Keep them simple.)
   
4. My “if-then” reorientation plan is:
   
   • If __________ happens, then I will __________.
     (Make it tiny. Make it doable. Make it repeatable.)
     

You don’t need to laminate it.
You don’t need to get it right.

Just tuck it into your pack.

A Question Worth Sitting With

If today were one paragraph in your eulogy (not the whole story, just a paragraph) what would you hope it said?

And if the answer feels tender or unfinished, maybe that’s not failure. Maybe that’s the compass quietly doing its job; waiting for you to look up, take a bearing, and keep walking.