Eric died the weekend after we graduated from high school.

I didn’t know him that well. He and I had known each other since seventh grade. His distinguishing feature was his height; he towered over his male peers as a freshman and was well over six feet tall at graduation. He surfed. He had dirty blonde hair. At some point, he dated the most popular girl in school (before she was deemed the most sexually promiscuous girl in school). He didn’t say much, though when he did, people laughed at his cynical humor.

He looked handsome in his royal blue graduation cap and gown on Friday afternoon.

I heard that, on Sunday morning, Eric simply didn’t wake up. He was 18 years old and slated to attend a respectable university in California.

Right when we were all about to manifest the platitudes contained within the high school commencement speeches, he died. Now he only lives in our faded memories.

Sometime in elementary school, a teacher asked the class to produce an “about me” book, which included pages about our respective pasts, presents, and futures.

I recall tearing off the perforated edges from the paper from the dot matrix printer and inserting the page about my future into the book. I had it all planned out: I was going to attend Stanford University for my undergraduate degree, obtain my medical degree from some other uppity school, and become a family practice physician (or maybe internist; the distinctions weren’t clear to me then) somewhere in California. My past, present, and future would all be in the Golden State.

My life has totally not gone according to plan—and not that I’m complaining. Yes, I attended medical school and am now a physician; this much is true. However, had someone told me when I was 21 years of age (the oldest I ever projected myself; I never thought, “What will I be doing when I’m 30 years old? 45? 60?”) that, in the future, I’d leave California, end up in Seattle, become a psychiatrist (!), swing dance, publish my writing online to an audience of hundreds (!!), take up running, develop an identity as a teacher, meet and befriend amazing people, and relocate to New York City (!!!), amongst many, many other things—I’d laugh in disbelief.

I’ve led a remarkable life. I don’t say that out of vanity. I am grateful for and incredulous at the numerous opportunities and fantastic individuals that have entered and shaped my life. I am very fortunate.

I recently sent out a note to those of my friends who run in Seattle, inviting them to join me in running my first 5K race in April.

A dancer—a guy I enjoy dancing with—zapped back a response, expressing interest in the event. In addition to informing me that he “run[s] 5Ks in [his] sleep” (I certainly don’t!), he noted my absence at the weekly dance.

That was nice.

The connections that we make and share with people are what enrich our existences and imbue our lives with meaning. This is why I remember Eric and my elementary school teachers (especially my fourth-grade teacher, who is one of the best teachers I ever had). This is why my dear friends from the past and I continue to chase each other down, regardless of our peripatetic ways. This is why we want our friends and family to visit us should we be in the hospital, instead of our brokers and accountants.

This is why I feel deeply sad about leaving Seattle.