And Many More: Creativity, Change, and Honoring Life's Milestones

Yesterday, my 26-year-old daughter attended a memorial service for a friend from middle school. She hadn't seen these friends in over a decade. Some had gotten married. Some had kids. And one had just died—now, heartbreakingly, forever 26.

During the memorial video, someone was singing "Happy Birthday" to her friend: that familiar tune we've all heard thousands of times. When they reached the line "and many more," my daughter felt something shift. He didn't get "many more" birthdays. Knowing those future candles are no longer possible made that tiny lyric land like a stone—poignant and final.

"And many more" assumes time we might not have. It's hopeful and heartbreaking at once because it brushes up against impermanence.

The Weight of "And Many More"

We say it without thinking. Birthday after birthday, year after year. "And many more!" rolls off our tongues like a promise we can't actually keep. It's one of those phrases that lives in the space between hope and reality: where we wish for endless tomorrows while knowing nothing is guaranteed.

When my daughter heard those words in that memorial video, she wasn't just mourning her friend. She was confronting the assumptions we carry about time, about continuity, about the luxury of "later." Her friend's timeline had ended at 26; the rest of us were still counting. Impermanence moved from idea to fact.

The phrase became a mirror. How many "and many more" moments had she taken for granted? How many times had she postponed, delayed, or assumed there would always be another chance? Because "many more" isn't promised.

Reunions: Windows Into Who We've Become

Memorial services and reunions share something profound: they're both time machines. They thrust us into conversations with our younger selves while revealing who we've become.

My daughter walked into that memorial carrying the version of herself she'd been at thirteen. But she was surrounded by friends who had grown into spouses, parents, professionals. Lives had diverged in ways none of them could have imagined during those middle school years.

The friend they were memorializing was frozen at 26, while everyone else will continue growing, changing, accumulating birthdays and experiences. It's a jarring realization: that we're all writing different stories from the same starting point.

These moments teach us that change isn't just inevitable; it's the point. We're not meant to stay the same. We're meant to evolve, explore, and expand into versions of ourselves our younger selves couldn't even imagine.

Creativity as a Bridge Between Then and Now

Here's what I've learned about processing life's big moments: creativity gives us tools that traditional coping methods often miss. When words feel inadequate and logic falls short, creative expression steps in.

Your brain needs ways to make sense of loss, change, and the passage of time. Creativity provides that pathway. It helps you honor what was, process what is, and imagine what could be.

After difficult reunions or memorials, we often feel stuck between grief and gratitude, between missing the past and embracing the present. Creative practices help us hold both feelings at once without needing to choose between them.

Whether it's through journaling, sketching, creating photo collages, or designing small rituals, creativity transforms overwhelming emotions into something tangible and workable.

The "And Many More" We Actually Have

While we can't guarantee unlimited birthdays for anyone, we can recognize the "and many more" opportunities that exist right now:

More moments of connection. That friend you've been meaning to call. The family dinner you keep postponing. The conversation you've been avoiding. These aren't guaranteed to be available forever.

More chances to create. Every day offers opportunities to make something, try something, or express something you've been holding back. The novel you've been thinking about. The art class you've been considering. The business idea that keeps surfacing.

More opportunities to be present. "And many more" isn't just about quantity of time: it's about quality of attention. How fully are you showing up for the birthdays, celebrations, and ordinary moments you do have?

More ways to honor growth. Instead of mourning who you used to be, creativity helps you celebrate who you're becoming. Document your evolution. Create something that captures this version of yourself.

Practical Ways to Honor Your "And Many More" Moments

Transform the uncertainty of "and many more" into intentional action:

Create a "Right Now" list. What do you want to do, say, or create while you still can? Not someday: now. Pick three things and put them on your calendar.

Design simple celebration rituals. Don't wait for major milestones. Create small ways to mark ordinary moments that matter. A weekly creative date with yourself. Monthly dinners with people who shaped your earlier chapters.

Document your current chapter. Take photos, write letters to your future self, record voice memos about what you're thinking and feeling right now. Your present self is interesting and worth remembering.

Reach out while you can. Send that text. Make that call. Write that letter. Express appreciation, curiosity, or simply acknowledgment while people are still here to receive it.

When "And Many More" Becomes "Right Now"

My daughter's memorial service experience reminded her that "and many more" isn't guaranteed: but "right now" always is. Her friend is forever 26. Every day you wake up, you have access to this present moment and whatever creative potential it contains.

The friends who gathered to remember their middle school classmate didn't just mourn what he'd lost. They celebrated what he'd contributed during his actual years. They shared stories about his humor, his kindness, his impact on their adolescent selves.

His "and many more" had ended, but his influence continued in their memories, their values, and the way they chose to live moving forward. In a strange way, honoring his life inspired them to be more intentional with their own.

Your Creative Prompt: The "And Many More" Project

Here's your invitation to transform this reflection into action:

Step 1: Choose your medium. Pick something that feels accessible: a journal, voice recorder, camera, sketchbook, or digital document.

Step 2: Complete these three creative exercises:

• List three things you want to do "and many more" times—and why they matter if time is short (experiences, conversations, creative acts)

• Create something that honors a person who didn't get their "and many more" (a letter, drawing, playlist, or small ritual). If it feels right, name what is now forever (their age, a memory, a trait) and what you'll carry forward.

• Design a simple way to celebrate or acknowledge your present self as an act of honoring impermanence: who you are right now, in this chapter

Step 3: Share it. Send a photo, read it to a friend, or post about your process. When we share our creative responses to life's big moments, we help others process their own.

The memorial service ended, but my daughter drove home with new clarity about her own "and many more" moments. She started making calls, scheduling visits, and saying things she'd been postponing.

"And many more" isn't a promise: it's a possibility. Creativity helps you make the most of the possibilities you actually have.

What will you create with your "right now"?