The video is a grueling collection of failures. You see him slamming into the flat bottom of the ramp over and over, looking tired, frustrated, and profoundly human. He admitted that his “willingness to slam unexpectedly into the flat bottom has waned greatly over the last decade”. When he finally lands it, he doesn’t just celebrate. He drops to his knees and says, “I’m kind of sad”.

He knew it was the last time he would ever do it.

The Weight of “Last Times”

Hawk was mourning the physical threshold of what his body could no longer endure - but his grief points to a broader, quieter closing of doors that happens to all of us. We often associate aging with loss of ability, but the greater loss we have to contend with as we get older is the loss of time. As the years pass, we move from the physical realization that we can’t do everything to the existential realization that we won’t be here forever.

There is a particular kind of finality that comes with age. We often move through life assuming the doors we walk through will always remain open. But as we get older, mortality becomes more than a concept; it becomes a physical presence. As the reporter David Kestenbaum noted, eventually “enough things break”.

I find this has been true in my own life. Too often, I’m moving too quickly, caught up in an oppressive “to-do” list and haunted by the unconscious reflex, honed over decades, to maximize productivity in all ways, even when it comes at a high price. But lately, I’ve felt a shift. When I hug my parents now, it feels different from how it did 10 or 15 years ago. I hold on a little longer and savor it more. I’m more deliberate about putting my arm around them and giving them a kiss. Because I know that our physical time together has an expiration date.

This awareness of our own mortality, and the mortality of those we love, has helped me bring the blur of daily life into focus. It’s pushed me to ask the key question:

Am I worrying about the right things?

Presence Over Quantity

The default mode of modern life is to move through it in a blur, only to stop when something breaks and realize how much you missed along the way - the changing colors of the sunrise seen through your window, the specific way a loved one laughs at a story they’ve heard a dozen times, the smile on your child’s face as they savor a favorite treat, the quiet joy in your parents eyes when you arrive home. It turns out that much of finding joy in life is about being present. Presence stretches time. Five minutes of real presence in a conversation is often more fulfilling than an hour with a friend who is distracted and multitasking.

Deep presence is an ongoing practice. It requires finding a delicate balance: keeping the reality of mortality close enough to sharpen our gratitude, without letting it cast a heavy, grim shadow over the beauty of the now. When we acknowledge that a door might one day close, we don’t just see the end; we see the invitation to show up as our truest selves while we are still standing in the room.

By accepting that our time and our bodies are finite, we are forced to trade the myth of “someday” for the reality of “now.” Tony Hawk’s final Ollie 540 wasn’t just a defeat of the body; it was a triumph of awareness. How often do we actually get the chance to recognize a “last time” while it’s happening? Tony’s sad smile was a goodbye to a trick, but it was also the bittersweet gift of being able to relish the final attempt: to know it, to name it, and in turn, to be grateful.

My question for you this week:

What is one thing you do - an activity, a conversation, a gathering, or something else that you value - that you want to start treating with the reverence of a “last time”? Something that you perhaps have been taking for granted and moving past too quickly in your busy life. How do you want to shift the way you show up in that moment?

I look forward to reading your reflections in the comments.

It is incredibly easy to fall into the trap of thinking that community can only exist when we agree on absolutely everything. But true connection isn’t the absence of disagreement. It is often found when we choose to look past labels and see the human being right in front of us. It happens when understanding another person becomes more important than convincing them.

Where I Look for Common Ground

During my time in government (and before and after), I often encountered people whose worldviews and positions were very different from mine. These weren’t just passing conversations; these were people with whom I had to partner and collaborate to get something done for the public good.

There were two approaches I used that helped me shift from a place of frustration or judgment to a place of openness and understanding. They are remarkably simple, but they worked for me.

The first, was I would look at the person and remind myself that this is someone whose mother or father loved them deeply. It would remind me that, however they came across to me, there was something within them worthy of love and affection. Because we enter this world as a miracle to someone. At birth, our arrival brought pure joy; someone looked at us and saw a being that was beautiful and perfect. Remembering this anchors me. It forces me to look beyond the immediate frustration and recognize the dignity and humanity we all began our lives with - and it’s still there even if it’s not always visible.

The second approach was to step back and try to understand the person as a human being with shared human experiences. I would ask them questions to learn more about their life as a spouse, a parent, a son or daughter caring for aging parents, a concerned citizen, or any one of the roles that we all share. It changed how I felt about them. It created more acceptance within me of the things we disagreed on because our disagreements no longer defined the entirety of who we were. If you can talk to people about the things and the people they love, you can build a genuine foundation. Everything else—even the hardest conversations—can grow from there.

How do you find community across difference? Where do you look for common ground when a relationship or circumstance feels divided?

This community is a space for us to learn from one another, and we truly want to hear from you. You can share your thoughts with us in a few ways:

• Email us: Write to us directly at hello@stayinghuman.us

• Call us: Leave us a voicemail at 1-833-74-HUMAN (1-833-744-8626)

• Comment: Join the conversation in the comments below.

Listen and subscribe on your favorite platform:

• Apple Podcasts

• Spotify

• YouTube

How can we bring people together across these divides, whether they are friends, neighbors, strangers, or family members? How do we build genuine bridges while staying true to our core values? Do you sometimes find it hard to know how to even begin finding community across difference?

These questions are deeply important to me, and they represent some of the most pressing challenges of our time. That is exactly why I wanted David French to join me on Staying Human.

I have followed David’s work for a long time and deeply value his thoughtful perspective on the beauty—and the distinct challenges—of living in community. As a columnist for The New York Times and a U.S. Army veteran who served in the Iraq War, he has dedicated years to exploring the forces that pull us apart and the values that can hold us together. His book, Divided We Fall: America’s Secession Threat and How to Restore Our Nation, offers a crucial roadmap for our current cultural landscape.

In this episode, we delve into how we can forge meaningful connections with people we don’t always agree with. We explore why reaching across difference is not only vital to our democracy, but absolutely essential to our individual well-being and collective healing.

Staying human is a shared journey. Send this episode on to someone in your life who might be looking for ways to build bridges and find common ground.

Listen and subscribe on your favorite platform:

• Apple Podcasts

• Spotify

• YouTube

It is a small, tactile inventory of his week. Sometimes, I find a crumpled tissue or a stray Lego brick. But most often, we find sticks and stone: grey pebbles smoothed by the playground dirt, jagged bits of quartz that caught the afternoon sun, and twigs (always the twigs!) varying in size from delicate splinters to sturdy branches that barely fit in a pocket.

To my son, these aren’t just debris. They are curated. They are the “best” rocks, set aside in a special bag to be given to his grandmother. They are treasures found on the long trek from the school doors to the car: a distance of perhaps fifty yards that, for him, contains the topographical diversity of a mountain range.

One afternoon, I opened the trunk of our car to load groceries and realized it had become a mobile forest. It was filled with sticks he couldn’t bear to throw away. My first instinct, born of adult efficiency, was to clear it out. I thought about the clutter, the dirt, and the “ordinariness” of it all.

Then I caught sight of him. He was standing by a tree, holding a crooked branch with the undivided attention that I would reserve for medical documents or academic papers. I watched him trace the rough grain of the bark and the curve of the wood, finding a depth in that one stick that I had completely missed.

In that moment, I realized that I had spent my entire walk to the car looking over, walking past, and, quite literally, treading upon the very things that were giving him a profound sense of joy.

The Language We Forgot

We often talk about wonder as if it’s a lightning strike, something that happens to us if we’re lucky enough to be standing in the right place at the right time. But watching my son, I’ve been reminded that wonder isn’t a rare event. It is a foundational skill: a language we all spoke fluently as children, and one we must spend our adult lives learning how to speak again.

As adults, we train our eyes to scan for utility rather than beauty. We pay attention to the metrics of a productive day: the unanswered emails, the logistics of the school run, and the persistent hum of worry about the future that is familiar to all of us living in these times of crisis. Our focus tends to narrow and look for problems to solve or tasks to complete. In the process, we become visually and spiritually illiterate to the ordinary.

We walk over the rocks. We overlook the sticks. We forget that the world is, manifestly, shimmering with small miracles right at our feet.

I want to recover that skill. I want to learn how to fish wonder out of my own pockets.

Wonder as a Practice

When we are overwhelmed, we often feel we need a grand escape - a long vacation or a total change of scenery - to find peace. But my son reminds me that ease and joy aren’t always waiting for us at the end of a long car ride. Often, they are right there already.

The beauty of the ordinary is that it is accessible. It doesn’t require a ticket or an invitation. It only requires a pause.

This week, I’ve started a small practice of my own. When I feel that mental tunnel vision beginning to set in, I pause. I pick up one ordinary thing - a coffee mug, a fallen leaf, one of the smooth stones my son left on my desk - and I just look at it. I try to see it with the curiosity of someone who has never seen it before. I observe its weight in my hand, the way the light hits its surface, and the history of how it came to be.

This kind of attention might feel small, but it is a vital counterweight to the noise of modern life. When we let the ordinary surprise us, the world is no longer just a landscape of obstacles. It becomes a place full of wonder, where we have the permission to sit in awe.

My question for you this week:

What is one “ordinary” thing you usually walk past that you can choose to truly observe today? Maybe it’s the way the light filters through a window at 4:00 PM, or the intricate pattern on a piece of fruit, or the sound of the wind in a tree you pass every morning.

Share your “ordinary wonder” in the comments. I’d love to hear what treasures you’re finding in your own pockets.

I’m looking forward to seeing the world through your eyes.

Leaves

By Ursula K. Le Guin

Years do odd things to identity.

What does it mean to say

I am that child in the photograph

at Kishamish in 1935?

Might as well say I am the shadow

of a leaf of the acacia tree

felled seventy years ago

moving on the page the child reads.

Might as well say I am the words she read

or the words I wrote in other years,

flicker of shade and sunlight

as the wind moves through the leaves.

It is easy to fall into the trap of thinking that joy appears only when everything is going perfectly. But as Kate so beautifully reminded us, joy isn’t the absence of pain—it’s often found right alongside it.

How I Open the Door to Joy

When I look at my own life, especially during demanding seasons, I’ve found that I have to actively open myself up to joy rather than waiting for it to find me.

The most immediate doorway to joy for me is always my children. When things feel overwhelming, I try to step away and simply do something fun with them. Watching their natural sense of wonder, sharing a silly story, and hearing their uninhibited peals of laughter has a way of resetting my spirit. Lately, as our family has been facing health challenges, leaning into those moments with the kids has been a vital lifeline. Their delight forces me into the present moment.

I’ve also realized over the years that, for me, joy and inspiration are deeply intertwined. When my spirit is low, and my energy feels flat, I reach for what I call my “soul box.” This is a collection of things I turn to intentionally when I need to be lifted up: a specific written passage, a favorite movie clip, or a segment of a speech that feels uplifting. It serves as a gentle bridge from a place of exhaustion back to a place of hope.

Finally, when the weight of life feels too heavy to carry alone, I look to the friends who know how to bring lightness back into the room. There is something incredibly beautiful about a deep friendship where someone knows exactly what you are grappling with, yet they don’t feel the need to constantly mirror your mournfulness. Instead, they choose to pull you up through an entirely different kind of energy.

Kate actually did this for me during a very tough stretch last December and January. She knew things were heavy, but instead of dwelling in the dark, she simply asked me if I wanted to hear a funny story. I said yes. And true to her word, she made me laugh and laugh with her hilarious accounts.

Whether it’s an old college roommate or a lifelong confidant, having people who love you well enough to be irreverent can shift your entire perspective. Between my kids, my oldest friends, and my soul box, I am continually reminded that we don’t have to navigate heavy seasons without joy.

Where do you look for joy when you’re going through a difficult time?

This community is a space for us to learn from one another, and we truly want to hear from you. You can share your thoughts with us in a few ways:

• Email us: Write to us directly at hello@stayinghuman.us

• Call us: Leave us a voicemail at 1-833-74-HUMAN (1-833-744-8626)

• Comment: Join the conversation in the comments below.

Listen and subscribe on your favorite platform:

• Apple Podcasts

• Spotify

• YouTube

I have long admired Kate’s profound wisdom, sharp wit, and incredible resilience. As a New York Times bestselling author, host of Everything Happens podcast, and professor at Duke Divinity School, she has spent years studying the stories we tell ourselves about success, suffering, and what it means to live a meaningful life after facing her own life-altering medical diagnosis. Her latest book is Joyful, Anyway. In this episode, we sit down to delve into joy, why it’s okay to look for lightness in the dark, and how we can actively cultivate spaces for joy in our everyday lives.

Staying human is a shared journey. Send this episode on to someone who might be looking for ways to bring in more joy.

Listen and subscribe on your favorite platform:

• Apple Podcasts

• Spotify

• YouTube

You can watch the podcast trailer below to get a glimpse of what we have been building.

Expanding Our Community

When I started this Substack, my goal was to explore how we can live truly fulfilling lives. The podcast is a natural extension of that mission. It’s an invitation to listen to provocative and personal conversations about what it actually looks like to live well in today’s complicated world.

Starting May 26, I’ll be sitting down with thinkers, authors, and healers to tackle the big questions: how we find joy amidst heartbreak, how we define success on our own terms, and how we build the relationships that give life its true value.

What’s Coming First

Our first episode features the wonderful Kate Bowler. As a historian and author who has faced profound personal challenges, Kate offers a unique perspective on navigating the twists and turns of modern life and finding beauty in the things we can’t “fix.”

New episodes will drop every Tuesday. You can find us on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your audio.

Mark Your Calendars

• May 26: Official Launch with Episode 1.

• May 29: A special live taping at the 2026 WBUR Festival in Boston. You can reserve tickets here.

I see this podcast as another room in the house we are building together here. I can’t wait for you to hear the stories we’ve been gathering.

Wishing you peace and joy,

Vivek

As I’ve said before, music has a profound effect on our bodies and minds. It can lower our cortisol, ease our breathing, and remind us that we were made to respond to beauty.

Based on your incredible feedback, we’ve built a “Community Mixtape” together. Here is a collection of our shared tracks, categorized by the feelings these songs evoke:

1. The Anthems of Resilience

Many of you shared songs that serve as a “walk-up song” for life: tunes that build strength when things feel heavy.

• “Resilient” by Rising Appalachia

• “Underdog” by Alicia Keys

• “Freedom” by Jon Batiste

• “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence and the Machine

2. The Soundtracks of Innocence & Nostalgia

There was a beautiful thread of “90s trips” and childhood memories, reminding us of the versions of ourselves we carry with us.

• “Nightswimming” by R.E.M. (A universal nod to innocence)

• “Stay (I Missed You)” by Lisa Loeb

• “California Stars” by Wilco & Billy Bragg

• “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond (The ultimate road trip song with family)

Join the Staying Human community and never miss a moment to reflect and connect.

Subscribe now

3. Songs for the Quiet Moments

When the world feels loud, these are the tracks the community turns to for “an outward sigh of relaxation.”

• “Both Sides Now” by Joni Mitchell

• “A Sky Full of Stars” by Coldplay

• “Peace Train” By Yusuf/Cat Stevens (10,000 Maniacs cover)

• “Looking for Space” by John Denver

• “Sing Gently” by Eric Whitacre

4. Connection & The “Friendship” Mix

You reminded me that the best music is often a gift from someone else, like a mixtape for a 40th birthday or a song shared between partners.

• “You’ve Got a Friend” by Carole King

• “Stand By Me” by Ben E. King

• “Company of Friends” by Danny Schmidt

• “What a Fool Believes” by The Doobie Brothers (A “Yacht Rock” favorite for jamming with partners)

The “Staying Human” Practice

One of you mentioned that you now print QR codes for playlists and put them in birthday cards. I love that idea. It’s a modern version of the true art of the mixtape.

Whether it’s a song that got you through residency or a mantra you sang to your child, these tracks are more than just notes. They are reminders of our connection to one another.

Thank you for sharing your music with me. I’m looking forward to keeping this playlist growing.

Thread’s model is a radical departure from traditional mentoring. Rather than the standard one-on-one approach, they surround a single struggling student with a ‘family’ of up to four dedicated adult volunteers. This family shows up for everything that is needed. And I mean everything: tutoring, help with college applications, packing a school lunch when food is scarce, showing up at the police station when a student is arrested, talking through breakups and fights, and so much more.

The Gift of a 10-Year Commitment

In an era of short-lived connections and short-term fixes, Thread makes a ten-year promise to every student to always be there for them.

The founder of Thread, Sarah Hemminger, told me the story of a young man, Devin, who was in their first cohort of students. After graduating from high school, he moved away and eventually fell out of touch. Years went by without any outreach or response from him. Most people would have given up on Devin, but not Thread. “We never give up on our students,” Sarah told me. So she kept reaching out every week with gentle messages reminding him that she was always there for him whenever he needed her. Some years later, when he was facing a difficult time and needed someone to talk to, Devin remembered what Sarah had said. So he reached out. When he did, Sarah responded. There was no guilt or lectures. There was just unconditional love and the quiet assurance that she would always have his back. More than twenty years after he first met Sarah, Devin is now the managing director for Thread.

Losing Our Anchors

Longevity in relationships is a beautiful gift - especially because so much of our world feels transitional today. People move and change jobs more often. AI chatbots are increasingly replacing people as the go-to place for emotional support. Everyone seems caught up in the chaos of to-do lists and life responsibilities which too often edge out the people in our lives.

Our relationships are our anchors. And without these anchors, it is hard to find our way through all the ups and downs of life.

While it’s true that many of our traditional anchors are fraying, we have the incredible opportunity to become anchors for one another. Hope lies in the fact that a long-term commitment is a choice we get to make every day. Like Sarah, we can be the voice that remains when everything else feels overpowering and temporary. By extending a hand, we create a refuge of belonging that can weather any storm, proving that even in a “here today, gone tomorrow” world, some things are still built to last.

Forging Deep Connections That Stand the Test of Time

At some point in our lives, many of us have been lucky to have someone like Sarah in our life - someone who was there for you with patience, kindness, and love. Whether they were in our lives for a brief time or for years, their presence meant everything.

Here is a small step you can take today: Identify one person in your life who has drifted away. Send a simple message—no guilt, no questions—just to let them know you are thinking of them and that you are still there. Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is let someone know they have a permanent place in our lives.

Who was that person in your life who was there for you no matter what? Think about how they showed up for you. Think about how they made you feel. Share your thoughts in the comments.

Leave a comment

We tell ourselves we’ll reach out when we have a full thirty minutes to talk, or when we aren’t rushing to a meeting, or when we’ve finally found the “perfect” words to say. We treat connection like a task that requires a cleared desk and a quiet room. But in our quest for the right moment, we often miss the moment altogether.

My father once shared a perspective that fundamentally changed how I view the rhythm of relationships. He told me: “When someone is in crisis, it matters when you reach out.” He meant reaching out quickly—because in a crisis, speed matters. But I’ve come to realize he was also talking about the endurance of our attention. In a crisis—a health scare, a loss, a period of deep collective anxiety—there is often an initial surge of support. But then, the world moves on. The flowers stop arriving. The “how are you” texts fade. Yet, for the person at the center of the storm, the recovery is often just beginning.

Connection in the Micro-Moments

We often overcomplicate what it means to be a “good friend.” We think it requires grand gestures or long-form updates.

I’ve learned a lot about the power of small gestures from my friend DJ. Despite a life defined by high-stakes decisions, he prioritizes the smallest possible unit of connection: the unprompted check-in. He’ll send a quick note—just a sentence or two—that carries no requirement for an update or a deep dive. It’s a digital tap on the shoulder.

DJ recognizes that consistency is the bedrock of trust. He doesn’t wait for a reason to connect, because he knows the connection is the reason. By creating these small, frequent touch points, he maintains the warmth of a relationship without the pressure of a reply.

This Week’s Invitation: Don’t Defer

The “Reach Out” Rule is an experiment in closing the gap between the impulse to care and the action of connecting. When we defer reaching out, we aren’t saving a few minutes; we are postponing the vital act of letting someone know they are held in our thoughts.

This week, try this: If someone crosses your mind—while you’re making coffee, walking to your car, or scrolling through your photos—reach out right then. Text, send a voice note, leave a voicemail (old-school, I know), or (gasp) pick up the phone and call them, even if just for 2 minutes, to say I’m thinking about you.

Don’t wait for a “better” time. The best time is the exact moment you thought of them. Your message doesn’t need to be profound. It can be as simple as: “You just crossed my mind, sending love.”

By acting on that thought, you are fulfilling the rule in its truest form. You are choosing to show up for someone. And as I’ve learned from both my father and my friends, this habit is exactly what builds a life of belonging.

We’ve had the NASA live feed running constantly — in the car, in the kitchen while cooking dinner, humming in the background as we moved through our days. We listened as they reflected on seeing Earth from the vicinity of the Moon — a precious blue crescent suspended in infinite darkness. We laughed as they troubleshot their space toilet and worked on liquid waste disposal — including one memorable moment when the crew vented liquid waste into space, and it floated past the window like a shower of glowing gems. We heard their voices fill with something that can only be described as childlike wonder when they saw the Moon up close and watched a solar eclipse from space.

I was in 4th grade when the Challenger explosion happened. Our class watched it live on television — the excitement, and then the silence, and then the horror as we began to understand what we had just witnessed. It’s one of those memories that never fully leaves you.

As we all sat together and watched the launch on April 1st, my wife and I felt a quiet apprehension. “Please let them make it up safely,” we kept repeating silently. There is a particular kind of fear that parents know well: the fear of your child’s innocence being taken by something you cannot control.

When Orion cleared the tower and climbed into the sky, we exhaled.

Nine days later, as the Orion capsule — named Integrity by its crew — began reentry into the atmosphere, we huddled together again to witness the end of this historic mission. We paused and said a prayer. Four human beings were about to come home, traveling at nearly 25,000 miles per hour, wrapped in a heat shield facing temperatures hotter than lava, trusting the work of thousands of people. That kind of courage deserves a prayer.

Then the communications blackout. Six long minutes when no one on Earth could reach them.

And then — the parachutes.

When those three main parachutes bloomed open on the screen, we erupted. Cheering, laughing, hugging. Tears of joy and relief mixed with wonder and inspiration. There is something primal about watching a human being attempt the seemingly impossible — and succeed. The relief is almost physical.

The four astronauts — Commander Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Canada’s Jeremy Hansen — had just completed humanity’s farthest journey from Earth since Apollo. They flew around the Moon. They broke records. They carried our species a little further into the cosmos than we had ever gone before and opened our minds to a universe of possibility.

A Path of Totality

I’ve been thinking about what this mission stirred in me, and I keep coming back to the solar eclipse of 2024.

People traveled hundreds of miles to stand in the path of totality. I remember working at the White House that day and watching the entire building empty out onto West Executive Drive — people of all different backgrounds, standing shoulder to shoulder, gasping together.

There is something about a shared moment of wonder that can quiet, if only for a moment, everything that divides us.

Artemis II did that again. In living rooms and school hallways and offices across the country — and across the world — people looked up. Together.

At a time when the world feels so heavy, we need more wonder. Not to distract us from the challenges at hand. But to remind us of what we are capable of feeling — the awe, the hope, the catch in the throat when something is genuinely, undeniably beautiful.

Our instincts for wonder and togetherness aren’t gone. Artemis proved it. They are simply waiting to be awakened.

A Simple Declaration

What will stay with me longest isn’t the spectacle of the launch or the drama of reentry. It’s something astronaut Christina Koch said — words so simple and so true that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them since.

After all the places they had traveled, after all the wonders they had seen, she made this declaration:

“We choose Earth. We choose each other.”

Koch’s words are a call back. Back to each other. Back to this small, beautiful, imperiled planet we share.

We choose Earth. We choose each other.

I want to sit with that phrase because I don’t think it means what it might first appear to mean. It is not a passive sentiment. It is not something you do once and then move on. Choosing each other is a decision we have to make every single day — especially when it’s hard. Especially when the forces around us are pulling us apart, turning us against one another, making it feel easier and safer to withdraw into our corners.

To choose each other anyway — that is the harder, braver thing. That is what those four astronauts reminded us from 250,000 miles away.

The Choice Before Us

Underneath the noise and the outrage and the exhaustion that so many of us feel, I believe most people are starving for the same things: meaning, connection, and the sense that we are part of something larger than ourselves.

Artemis II offered all three in a single evening.

The night the astronauts returned, our family sat together in a living room and prayed for four strangers. And when the parachutes opened, we cheered like it was our own family coming home. I know we weren’t alone.

Our instinct — to care, to hope, to rejoice together — is not gone. It is very much alive.

We just have to choose it.

Every day. Every moment.

We choose Earth. We choose each other.

What did the Artemis II mission mean to you? I’d love to hear in the comments.

In my earlier post about mixtapes/mixCDs, I shared Part 1 of the songs on my Staying Human playlist. I loved reading all the songs you shared in response. In fact, you inspired an idea that I share at the end of this post.

Below is Part 2 of my Staying Human playlist. These are songs I’ve returned to again and again over the years. Some of these songs remind me of difficult moments. Others remind me of joy. Many remind me of people.

However messy and chaotic life may get, music can always help us find joy, perspective, and a sense of ease. And when we share music with others, we bring this magic to their lives.

Songs for Staying Human (Part 2)

1. “Crash into Me” — Dave Matthews Band

I used to listen to this song on long drives through Connecticut when I was making the long trek up I-91 to visit friends in Boston. There is something mesmerizing about it—a quality that makes time shrink and the hours meld together. I’d listen to it on repeat more times than I care to admit!

2. “Variations on the Kanon” — George Winston

I discovered George Winston during my first year of medical school. I would listen to this piece at the end of a long day in the classroom and the library. Years later, I had the chance to connect with George Winston and tell him how much his music had meant to me during that time. My young children are now listening to the same piece that got their father through medical school.

3. “Despacito” — Luis Fonsi

I have a whole list of songs for when I need an energy boost. After a long day or a short night, this is one of the songs I turn to. It sits right alongside my other “move” music, which includes “Freedom (1990)” by George Michael, “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz, “Right Round” by Flo Rida, and “Elevation” by U2.

4. “Time to Say Goodbye” — Andrea Bocelli & Sarah Brightman

I first heard this when I was in graduate school. There’s something about the way their voices come together, singing in English and Italian, that feels expansive. Years later, my children discovered it and were just as captivated. Just this morning, we played it in the car on the way to school and they were singing along—both in English and Italian! It’s one of those pieces that transcends language.

5. “Both Sides Now” – Sara Bareilles & Josh Groban

Sara and Josh recorded this version during the first year of the pandemic, singing through glass panels in a recording studio. They could see each other, but they couldn’t touch. That image captured something many of us felt at the time: so close to one another, yet separated. Hearing them perform this live at Lincoln Center remains one of the most inspired moments of my life. I return to this recording whenever I need to be reminded of how lucky I am to be alive.

6. “Talkin’ ‘Bout a Revolution” — Tracy Chapman

This was the first concert I ever attended. The way Tracy sang with her trademark gentle power about people the world had overlooked stuck with me. It reminded me that sometimes the greatest impact doesn’t come from the loudest voice. There is great strength in quiet words spoken with determination.

7. “Like a Prayer” — Madonna

Madonna has been a marker of time for me since my fourth-grade school music class where our teacher would make us sing “La Isla Bonita” together each week. Over time, I came to love many of her songs. When I started residency training, I had a bucket list of exactly two artists I needed to see live in concert: U2 and Madonna. Thanks to my good buddy Mark Berman, I got to see Madonna perform at Foxboro stadium a few years later.

But it almost didn’t happen. The show was sold out, and Mark and I only had one ticket between us. We asked everyone if they had an extra ticket, but not surprisingly, the answer was no. We were losing hope and the concert had already started when a young woman walked up to us and asked, “do you really want to go to this concert?” Absolutely, we replied. And just like that she handed her ticket to us. “I don’t really want to go anyway,” she said and walked away, leaving us with our jaws on the floor. What a crazy and powerful reminder that sometimes the universe finds a magical way to make your dreams come true.

8. “Gravity” – Sara Bareilles

In 2024, I interviewed Sara Bareilles at the 92nd Street Y for the podcast I had as Surgeon General (House Calls with Dr. Vivek Murthy). I told her how much this song had meant to me during moments when relationships in my life felt uncertain. To my disbelief, she then said, “What if I play it for you right now?” And she walked over to the piano on stage and proceeded to do just that. I will never forget that moment with Sara. Sometimes the music that helps us heal also becomes a bridge between people.

Here’s the Idea You Inspired

I’ve been so moved by the songs and stories you’ve shared that I want to build a community-driven “Staying Human” playlist—a shared soundtrack shaped by the songs you suggest that we will share with everyone.

So let me know in the comments: What songs help you stay human? Let’s build this collection together.

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Sometimes, people will respond and tell us what they need. Quite often, however, they may not know. When we are in a state of crisis, our internal resources (time, attention, and energy) are at an all-time low. We enter a survival mode where even the smallest choices feel monumental. And even the simplest question can feel overwhelming, like it takes more energy and focus than we can muster. The stress of the moment is like an invisible bag that weighs you down, and a well-intentioned question can feel like one more stone added to your bag. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ask people what they need. But we should recognize that people may not be able to voice what they need.

The Expiration Date on Empathy

This mental exhaustion is often compounded by a deep-seated cultural notion that we should be able to take care of things on our own. We often worry about inconveniencing others. We worry about creating an unwanted sense of obligation by asking for or accepting help. So we put on a mask that says everything is fine even though we’re struggling. Maybe we ask for help on the first or second day, but more than that feels like an imposition even though the pain is still there.

I was reminded of how pervasive this “time limit” on support is during my residency training in a primary care clinic. A teacher there, who was widely loved, was killed in a terrible accident while riding his scooter in downtown Boston. We were all devastated. In the weeks that followed, we found comfort in reaching out and hugging one another. Which is why I was stunned when a hospital executive told us the hugging was only acceptable up to two weeks after a tragedy. After that, it had to stop.

As bizarre as that sentiment felt, it reflects a common belief that there is an expiration date on our empathy and our right to ask for help. This invisible deadline is exactly why so many of us retreat into ourselves when we are struggling. We know that grief is non-linear, yet we expect our healing to follow a straight line. We worry that by reaching out, we are overstaying our welcome or becoming a burden to those we love. It creates a silent divide where the person in crisis is too exhausted to ask, and the friend is waiting for a signal that may never come. To bridge this gap, we have to stop waiting for permission and start showing up in ways that don’t require an invitation. This means moving toward a form of support that is both high in impact and low in friction.

High-Impact, Low-Friction Support

“High-Impact, Low-Friction” support consists of actions that provide tangible relief without requiring the recipient to manage the help they’re receiving.

If you want to move from asking to doing, look for the “holes” where a loved one’s energy is leaking and fill them yourself. Here’s what that looks like in practice:

• Don’t ask, just do: Instead of asking if they need help with food, drop off some groceries or meals that you’ve prepared.

• Manage the “Invisible” Tasks: Help with the “life maintenance” tasks that fall by the wayside during a crisis: come over and take out the garbage, water their plants, rake their leaves, or do the dishes.

• Coordinate other helpers: it can be overwhelming to figure out how to respond to everyone who wants to offer support. Reaching out to and coordinating well-wishers can be a tremendous help.

• Provide presence without a deadline: One of the kindest things you can do is remind someone that your care doesn’t have a deadline. This consistency makes it clear that you aren’t just there for the initial crisis, but for the long walk toward healing, however long that may take.

A Practice for This Week

We often err on the side of caution because we fear being intrusive. But the greater risk is not showing up at all. Even if you show up and the help isn’t strictly “needed”, people will remember the intention behind your actions.

Your Call to Action: Identify one person in your life who could use your support this week. Instead of asking what they need, choose one low-friction act of service—a delivery, a chore, or a quiet visit—and simply do it.

Most of all, remember that it is our presence, not the perfect words or the perfect actions, that matters. We have the power to help each other heal. We just need the courage to show up for the people we love.

Have you ever noticed how music can change the feeling in a room? When I practiced medicine at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, there was a staff member who traveled from floor to floor playing the harp. It would last for only 15 minutes before she moved on to the next floor, but as soon as I heard those notes, whether I was examining a patient, writing a note, or sorting through a pile of medical records, everything would slow down. I could feel my breathing ease and my shoulders relax. It was as if the collective blood pressure of the floor came down a bit.

Science tells us music doesn't just sound good — it has a profound effect on our biology. Research shows that music can improve our mood, lower our anxiety, and even reduce pain and fatigue. Furthermore, rhythmic, melodic sounds can lower cortisol levels and activate the parasympathetic nervous system.

In the spirit of the healing power of music, here are a few songs that I return to again and again. Some give me joy, some bring me calm, some make me want to move. And all of them remind me that our bodies and minds were made to respond to the beauty and sound of music. To be moved by music is to be human.

Songs for Staying Human (Part 1)

1. “If I Ever Lose My Faith in You” – Sting

In medical school, making mixed CDs for friends was my thing. I’d spend hours on the sequencing, the handwriting on the liner notes, the feeling of handing something of yourself to someone you cared about. This song was in constant rotation. It still carries the memory of those friendships, the ones formed in the particular crucible of becoming a doctor, and whenever I hear it, I’m back there.

2. “With or Without You” – U2

I remember watching U2 perform this song during the Super Bowl after September 11. The names of those who had died scrolled behind the band as they played. The emotion in that moment was overwhelming. Every time I hear the song, I remember that period in time — the extraordinary power of people coming together in the face of unspeakable pain.

3. “Perfect” – Andrea Bocelli & Ed Sheeran

My children love this one. When my son was a toddler, it was hard to get him to sit down and eat his food. But I remember the moment this song came on, he froze. Completely transfixed. And for the duration of the song, he ate his food. Needless to say, we kept the song on repeat for the whole meal. My kids still ask for this song when we are driving to school in the morning. There’s something about Bocelli’s voice that moves me deeply. And I’m not alone. I heard him sing at the Opening Ceremony of the Winter Olympics in Milan, and he left an entire stadium mesmerized.

4. “I Will Remember You” – Sarah McLachlan

In medical school, I wasn’t always lucky in love. In fact, often quite the opposite. After a particularly crushing conversation when it was clear I got “friend-zoned”, my classmate Amar came over to check on me. There were no lectures. He just listened to what happened then played this song as we sat there quietly. It’s a reminder that heartbreak is easier to carry when someone sits beside you.

5. “All My Love” — Coldplay (feat. the Dick Van Dyke video)

If you haven’t seen the music video for this song, it is worth a watch. Coldplay invited Dick Van Dyke, in his nineties, to dance and sing. And he does. With the same whimsical, irrepressible spirit he’s carried his whole life. His body has changed, but something essential in him hasn’t. I think about that often. The spirit we cultivate — the playfulness, the willingness to move and be moved — that can outlast almost everything else. This song reminds me how important it is to tend to that spirit.

6. “Superstition” – Stevie Wonder

This was the track that could shift the mood of an entire study session. It could take me from the doldrums to a dream state in a moment. It’s a reminder to stay grounded: don’t let shadows and superstitions weigh you down when you have the power to create your own light.

7. “Save My Life” — Andy Grammer

This song is about Andy Grammer’s godmother, who stepped in to care for him after his mother passed away from cancer. It’s a tribute to the people who step in when we lose faith in ourselves. It reminds me of the anchors in my life who have saved me in times of crisis.

8. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” — Def Leppard

This one requires some context. It was the song of my sixth grade dance. I did not want to go. I felt awkward, nervous, completely out of my element. But I walked in, heard this song, and something loosened. I thought: okay. I can do this. What I love about this song, beyond the pure nostalgia, is that it’s a reminder of the power of music to ease you into something you were afraid of. Also: the drummer, Rick Allen, recorded this with one arm. The song carries that resilience in it, and inspired ten-year old Vivek to be resilient as well.

Join the Conversation

I’d love to hear from you. What songs help you stay human? Whether it’s a track that helps you downshift after a long day, or a melody that reminds you of a person you love, please share it in the comments.

Look out for Part 2 of my Staying Human playlist in April. I’m looking forward to building this space together.

What would change in your life if you stopped trying to use every minute well?

That question sounds almost irresponsible in a culture that teaches us to squeeze productivity from every corner of our day. Many of us have learned to move through life as if we’re always late for something else—optimizing our routes, multitasking through conversations, fitting connection into the leftover space between obligations. I’ve done this too. For a long time, I believed that being efficient was a form of virtue.

But lately, I’ve been asking a different question: What might we be sacrificing when we treat time as something to master, rather than something to give?

As a doctor, I was trained to look for patterns—signals in the body that point to what’s working and what’s breaking down. As Surgeon General, I came to see patterns in people’s lives, too. Over and over, in quiet conversations across cities and countries, I heard a similar story: people were busy, capable, and outwardly successful—yet deeply lonely. They had calendars full of commitments, but few relationships that felt spacious enough to breathe in.

Loneliness is not just a feeling. It’s a health risk. It raises our risk of heart disease, depression, dementia, and early death. And yet, many of the habits we’ve come to reward—constant optimization, relentless efficiency, treating every interaction as transactional—are quietly eroding the conditions that allow real connection to grow.

A while back, I was reminded of this in a small, unexpected way. My mother knew a man in government who had once helped answer a time-sensitive question. Months later, when she was coming to visit me in Washington, DC, she messaged him to see if he might stop by to receive the mangos she brought from her own garden as a small gesture of thanks. He was a busy man, with responsibilities that occupied most of his waking hours. I wasn’t sure he’d have the time or inclination to pay a visit to virtual strangers.

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To our surprise, he came. And he didn’t just stop in. He stayed for three hours, even though his schedule was packed. At one point, we asked him why he had made the time. He smiled and said his kids had asked him the same thing before he came. “Why was he going to waste time with people he didn’t even know?” they asked him. His answer has stayed with me. “If you want to build relationships, you have to be willing to waste time with other people,” he said quietly. Not time optimized for outcomes. Not time aimed at extracting value. Just time spent in the presence of another human being, with an open heart and an open mind.

There was something radical in that statement. It challenged an assumption so embedded in modern life that most of us have stopped noticing it—that every interaction should have a purpose, that connection ought to be efficient, and that time spent on relationships is time we’re not spending on the real priorities in life.

Our new friend’s statement also underscored the unhealthy relationship we’ve developed with efficiency. We’ve been taught to make our days as frictionless as possible. We find the fastest route to work. We rinse dishes as quickly as we can, instead of letting the warm water run over our hands for a moment. We fill the four minutes it takes the kettle to boil with email or headlines. None of these habits are inherently wrong. But when the pursuit of efficiency becomes our default way of moving through the world, it can quietly hollow out the texture of our lives—and the depth of our relationships.

I know what this feels like. Because I’ve spent too many years as an overoptimizer, trading work and achievement for friendship and conversation. Rarely has it ever been worth it.

There is a classic image that has always stayed with me—a jar filled with rocks, pebbles, and sand. The rocks are what matter most. The pebbles, a little less. The sand is everything else. The lesson is simple: if you fill the jar with sand first, there is no room left for the rocks. But if you place the rocks first, the sand finds its way around them. I think about this often when I consider how we fill our days. Most of us, without quite meaning to, let the sand set the rhythm—the notifications, the errands, the low-stakes busyness—and then wonder why there is so little room left for the people we love.

Finding “Unproductive” Time

If you want to build community, you have to give it time. Not optimized time. Unstructured, unhurried, “unproductive” time. The kind of time where conversations wander. Where nothing needs to be accomplished. Where people can show up as they are, not as the most efficient version of themselves.

For many people, pausing can feel impossible when you’re working hard just to make ends meet. But even small moments of connection can matter. Just 10–15 minutes of unhurried conversation or shared presence can help calm the body’s stress response and give our nervous system a chance to reset.

So what does this look like, practically?

Here are a few small experiments you might try:

• Choose one moment a day to stop optimizing. Let the microwave cook without filling the time. Walk a slightly longer route home. Notice what happens in the extra minutes you reclaim.

• Create “aimless” time with someone you care about. No agenda. No productivity goal. Just shared presence.

• Audit your time sinks. Where does your time quietly drain away—on screens, on low-stakes busyness? Not to shame yourself, but to notice what might be crowding out the big rocks.

• Protect one recurring window for connection. A weekly walk. A standing dinner. A phone call you don’t rush.

These are not grand gestures. But small practices, repeated over time, can change the shape of a life. Much of the magic of being alive happens in these “white spaces”—the gaps where we aren’t multitasking or furiously chasing a checkbox. When we put down our devices to wait for a friend, or linger for a few minutes with a neighbor without an agenda, we create the stillness necessary for unexpected insights and reflections to surface. It is in these unscripted moments that we often find the clarity we’ve been trying to “work” our way toward.

If you want to build community, you have to be willing to “waste time” with people. The irony is that this kind of time is never truly wasted. It’s where trust grows. It’s where belonging takes root. It’s where we remember that we are not meant to live our lives alone.

I’d love to hear from you: Do you, too, sometimes feel that relentless pressure to be efficient at all costs? Have you experienced the tyranny of the “to do” list? Where in your life might you make a little more room for unhurried time with others?

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What’s the secret to living a truly fulfilling life? I’m talking about a life with deep connection, joy, and love.

And how do we create such a life in a world where massive forces, especially technology, are edging out the very qualities that make us human: our relationships, our compassion, and our commitment to the common good?

These are questions that have emerged in my conversations with patients over the years, especially those at the end of their lives, and with the countless people I met around the world as U.S. Surgeon General.

Those conversations taught me something profound. Again and again, patients would share that what mattered most at the end wasn’t fame, wealth, or power. It was how they cared and were cared for by others. The relationships they built. The kindness and generosity they shared. That’s what gave life meaning.

The problem is: Most of us have been sold a version of the good life that doesn’t deliver. Achieve. Acquire. Optimize. We check the boxes we were told to check. But too often, it doesn’t fill our cup for very long. It still feels like something is missing. Something that can’t be filled with our phones or our feeds.

The life that actually fills us up – the one our gut already knows, the one our best memories are made of – that life isn’t built alone. It’s built with other people. In kitchens and front porches and neighborhoods where people know your name.

In a world where so many forces are pulling us apart - that is selling us loneliness and calling it freedom - choosing community is how we stay human.

I call it the Together Life. It’s a new covenant but not a new idea. In fact, it’s the oldest one we have. We just need to choose it again. Together.

These are the questions we’re taking on here at Staying Human. It’s time to challenge the societal forces that have too often promised fulfillment but led us in the opposite direction. It’s time for us to choose a better way to live. I invite you to join me on this journey; to make that choice with me. See you soon.

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What This Is About

This isn’t about life hacks or quick fixes.

It’s about uncovering the essential building blocks of fulfillment. We all have this inside of us.

Whether you’re a parent, like me, trying to figure out how to raise your kids, a young person who’s grappling with how to define success, or someone who has met a lot of success benchmarks but still feels like something is missing, we all have something in common: we want to make the most of this one precious life.

This is a space to ask the big questions, even if it means challenging conventional norms around what defines success and the forces that tell us to chase “the good life”.

What You’ll Find Here

Every week, I’ll share:

• Personal reflections and stories from my own journey

• Essays exploring what matters most: What does it mean to live well? How do we stay connected to our humanity? How do we help our children understand they’re enough as they are?

• We’re also working on a new podcast called Staying Human, and we’ll be sharing updates as they become available. But in the meantime: Who would you like to hear from? What topics would you like us to cover?

Here’s what makes this space different: I want to hear from you. Throughout my career, the most important insights have come from listening to patients, to communities, to people navigating these same questions. I’ll be asking questions and genuinely hope you’ll share what’s on your mind in the comments. Your experiences and wisdom will fuel the conversation and shape what we explore together.

We’re Meant to Do This Together

This journey, to find fulfillment that lasts, is not meant to be taken alone. We’re meant to do it together, as a community. Through conversations with each other, we will find the wisdom we need.

If you’re asking these deeper questions about how to live a fulfilling life in a stressful, chaotic world, you’re in the right place.

I hope you will join me on this journey. We begin next Tuesday, March 24th.

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With gratitude,
Vivek