Next February, I’m going to die.
Not permanently, I hope. But convincingly enough that the world—and maybe even my own ego—will think I’ve disappeared (you might listen HERE to my podcast episode that came out last Friday with Diana Chapman when I hatched this idea).
For one month, I will be completely off the grid. No phone. No internet. No news. No email. No digital breadcrumbs suggesting I still exist. From the outside, it will look like I fell off the planet.
But this isn’t a sabbatical.
I’m not enrolling in a Spanish immersion course in San Miguel. I’m not finally learning the guitar. I’m not writing a book. I’m not optimizing, producing, or achieving anything that could be turned into a clever LinkedIn post.
In fact, I’m intentionally not using this time to do.
I’m using it to be.
Each morning, I’ll wake up with no agenda and ask four simple questions:
What do I want to do today? Where do I want to go? Who am I today? And why am I living?
We rarely ask such questions because our lives are so pre-scripted. Our calendars tell us who we are. Our phones tell us where to go. Our responsibilities tell us why we’re alive.
Remove those structures, and something strange happens: the self becomes a little more mysterious.
This experiment is based on a belief I’ve been circling for years: sometimes the most powerful way to reinvent yourself is to create enough empty space for a new self to emerge.
Think of it as a chrysalis without the caterpillar’s to-do list.
The night before I “die,” I’ll host a final dinner with a group of close friends. But instead of a typical farewell, we’ll do something unusual: a social eulogy.
Each of us will say the things that too often go unsaid while someone is still alive. Gratitude. Truth. Forgiveness. Appreciation. A Distant Memory. The things you normally only hear at a memorial service.
It’s inspired by the old spiritual idea to “die before you die.” Imagine hearing your own eulogy while you’re still alive enough to let it change you.
That dinner will be the ceremonial threshold. The next morning, I’ll disappear.
Interestingly, this isn’t just a personal experiment. It’s also a leadership one.
I’ll be giving the team at MEA the opportunity to run the world’s first midlife wisdom school as if I’ve already left the planet—before I actually leave the planet.
Entrepreneurs rarely get to see what happens when they’re not in the room. Founders are often gravitational forces; their presence bends everything around them.
For a month, the gravitational field will be gone.
And that’s intentional.
If the institution is healthy, it will evolve. If it struggles, that’s useful feedback too. Either way, it’s a fascinating rehearsal for the inevitable truth every founder must face: one day, the organization will continue without you.
So yes, next February is The Month I Died.
But the real question isn’t whether I disappear.
The real question is: who shows up when I come back?
I’ll finish with a beautiful poem MEA alum Kevin Gordon sent me last week.
My Gatha
To be mindful
of time passing
and to savor it,
pleasant or unpleasant,
difficult or easy,
is the true measure
of success.
-Chip