A few years ago, I emailed a friend with a writing-related question. It had been a year or two since we’d talked, but he was always a quick responder.

It set off warning bells in my head when three weeks went by with radio silence. He wasn’t the type. (I am the type. But he wasn’t.) It was 2018. It made absolutely no sense that my friend, then thirty-four years old, could be anywhere other than at his laptop, working on another novella, always in the style of F. Scott Fitzgerald. But an eerie feeling crept over me and I ran a web search for his name. All the usual stuff.

I stared at his name in the search bar for another minute and, hating myself for it, added the word “obituary.” Why would I type such a thing? But, right away, it came up: “Our precious and loving son, Stephen, went to be with his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ on. . .” I stared at the notice. He’d already been gone a year and a half. He hadn’t even made it to thirty-four.

None of it made sense. I reached out to a member of my old writing group, which had once met at the local Barnes & Noble. “I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been nearly a decade. Do you know what happened to Stephen? I just found out. . .” This person didn’t know much, either, except that our mutual friend was buried out-of-state. I didn’t feel like much of a friend, glibly unaware that he’d been in the ground for eighteen months.

I pulled up our email correspondence again. In his last email to me, Stephen wrote: “Over the past several years I started researching and writing what could possibly be my life’s work. It’s absolutely massive in scope and quite honestly scares the crap out of me. I’ve started and restarted just to find the starting line. I have to have the courage to continue this journey.”

He passed away three months later. I re-read the feedback I’d sent on his novella; though mild, my words seemed biting now. Why didn’t I tell him that he was a great writer? And why didn’t I ask him more about that project—his “life’s work,” he called it? In reply, I simply rambled on about my own project.

The loss of this friend changed me. I stopped withholding praise from other writers, friends, and family members. I started gushing over their accomplishments, large or small, even when it didn’t feel quite natural. I’m a competitive person, after all, and sometimes (if I’m being honest) I hated seeing others succeed. But then I’d think of Stephen. For years, I admired his commitment to his craft. But I never told him. I never told him.

Your words matter, even if it may seem like your words don’t make a difference. If you’re wondering if you should congratulate this person or wish that person a happy birthday—if it’s been too long and it would be too weird now—the answer is that it probably hasn’t been too long and it probably wouldn’t be too weird. The average life expectancy in the United States is 76.33 years. That’s not a lot of time.

Let this be your reminder to tell somebody that you think they’re a fantastic writer, computer programmer, stay-at-home mom, or whatever it is that they do well. That they matter to you. Let’s stop withholding encouragement like we’ll run out of it if we’re not careful. Tell people they matter. Wish someone a happy birthday, even if it’s been years. What’s the worst that can happen? Is someone going to complain that you had the nerve to wish them a happy birthday? Probably not. And, if they do, that says more about them than it does you. 

You go right ahead, being light.