Tim Migraw, Hudson’s Version

A moment stopped me on a dime.

Picture us: my dad, my best friend from college, her twin sister, and me—on our first drive down the winding roads of Mallorca. The mountains kissed the glowing sea as "Live Like You Were Dying" by Tim McGraw played through the speakers.

I laughed to myself.

There we were, suspended in a postcard—my college best friend and my dad somehow by my side in Europe—and the soundtrack? A song about dying.

The magic of Tim McGraw: he sneaks truth into beauty. Or maybe it's the other way around.

As the song ended, stories began. Each of us unraveled a thread tied to that track. Then my dad cued up "What Hurts the Most" by Rascal Flatts.

Thanks to his music career, we were gifted a backstage pass to the pain behind the lyrics. He told us the song was written after the songwriter lost his son in an ATV accident. "Watching you walk away," he explained, "was left vague on purpose—so anyone grieving anything could find themselves in it."

The lyrics echoed:

"If I could do it over, I would trade, give away
All the words that I saved in my heart that I left unspoken."

The song's genius wasn't just in its pain—it was in how that pain was transformed into something the world could witness. A quiet dare: say what you need to say while you still can.

Suddenly, what seemed like a strange song choice became the most brilliant one. Grief had found its way into our joy—and did the wildest thing: it expanded it.

Because sometimes, the only way to grasp how lucky you are is to stand at the edge of losing it all. To realize the gravity of your joy. To know how sacred it is to love deeply. To hold what is never promised.

We arrived at our Airbnb, hosted—no joke—by a man named Angel. A stand-up comedian who was too busy to let us in. So naturally, we got locked out of heaven. Twice.

First, the Airbnb doors. Then, the paddleboard.

Angel had left it for us—maybe—but locked the bag it was in. We dragged it across cliffs to the beach, only to be defeated by a zipper. Cue a rock to the rescue.

Eventually, we made it to the water with the board. Glowing blue water. A little slice of heaven.

Well... until I drank a beer on an empty stomach and dropped my brand-new Havianas flip-flops. I bent down to grab them near the dock—and realized I was knee-deep in quicksand.

Tipsy, dizzy, and sinking. But still absolutely committed to saving the shoes.

Because there is simply no world in which I'm losing something Brazilian.

A great reminder that the best things in life can easily slip away. And when they do, you force yourself to figure out how not to sink with them.

That night, we dressed up for a much-anticipated steak dinner. After days soaked in saltwater and sunscreen, the simple act of wearing a dress felt sacred.

Life has a way of shifting from comedy to profundity in the span of a breath.

The real sanctified moment came when my best friend turned to my dad and asked: "What was it like being Hudson's father during her health journey?"

We all quieted. Listening.

He told us how close I really was. How his heart stopped when the doctor first came out and asked for "the girl with the tumors."

We know now it wasn't cancer. But we were briefly placed back in that moment—when it could have been.

I've always described that time as surreal—but hearing it from him—the scans, the silence, the waiting—there's no word for it.

Then my best friend said something to me I'll never forget:

"When you talk about it, it's like it happened to someone else. But from your dad's eyes, it actually was you."

And just like that, we were back to Tim McGraw:

"I went skydiving, I went Rocky Mountain climbing
And I loved deeper
And I spoke sweeter
And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying
Someday, I hope you get the chance
To live like you were dying."

So I'm giving my dad that exact gift. We're going skydiving together.

It feels poetic. Full-circle. And perfectly absurd.

The kind of thing you do not in spite of life being fragile, but because it is. The kind of thing you do twice—because your brain surgeon permitted you once. The kind of defiant joy that says: we're here and we're simply not taking that for granted.

And maybe that's the exact point:

To laugh when the doors are locked.
To chase what you love—even as it's sinking.
To wear the dress.
To ask the questions.
To talk about the things you'd rather bury.
To find connection in ways we're taught to avoid.

Because heaven's not always some far-off promise.

Sometimes it's a moment that stops you on a dime—and reminds you: Heaven's already here. And you're in it. Now live like it.