Come read the many reasons people have shared — family, friends, joy, kindness, and the everyday moments that make living so big. Then share your reason, so someone else can find a little more light in theirs.
Hello.
I write this letter to inform you, the reader, how I have been forever changed. No, I do not mean it in the traditional sense, I mean it in the eternal sense.
What am I referring to? What four words have changed me? As the title indicates?
LIVING. IS. SO. BIG.
You just read them. Now you are probably wondering just how exactly these four words changed me. Well, in the most profound way I must say.
I was at my wits end in the beginning of 2010 and didn't see anymore point to life because of a plethora of different things that were occurring. I didn't focus on any of the beautiful or positive things in my life at that time. I only focused on the handful of shitty things that corroded my mind. I let them convince me that life wasn't worth living.
As time went on, I got to the point where I went through with an attempt to end my life. This landed me in a psychiatric hospital for about 7 days. Moving forward, the true healing and epiphany hit me when I heard my dad speak four words, "Living Is So Big."
Turns out, while I was dwelling in the psych hospital for those 7 days, my dad was on a mission. He ordered wristbands with the words "Living Is So Big" on them. He created this website and had friends and family write their reasons why living is so big for them and submit them on the website, like this post you are now reading. He was busy doing all these things and more, so that when I was released from the psych hospital, he would introduce to me all that he had done... (read more)
I was adopted from Guatemala as a baby and grew up in Minnesota. This year, at thirty, I traveled to Guatemala for the first time to visit the village where I was born.
My three kids, ages eight, ten and thirteen, decided to run a car wash in our driveway to raise money for the animal shelter. They made signs out of poster board. They borrowed every bucket and sponge in the neighborhood.
For three years, I've listened to my upstairs neighbor's daughter practice the piano every afternoon at four. When she started, she was seven and could barely play "Twinkle, Twinkle." I could hear every mistake.
My son was scared of the water for years. He'd sit on the edge of the pool with his feet dangling and refuse to go any further. This summer, at seven, he finally decided it was time.
My five-year-old has opened an imaginary restaurant in our living room called "Café Max." It's open every evening from six to six-thirty. Reservations are required. The menu changes daily.
My father kept a harmonica in the glove box of his car for as long as I can remember. On long road trips, when we were stuck in traffic, he'd take it out and play.
My wife works the night shift in the labor and delivery unit at our hospital. When her shift ends at seven a.m., she and three of her coworkers go to the same diner for breakfast.
Every Sunday morning, a group of retirees gathers at the diner on Main Street to do the Sunday crossword together. They take up the big round table by the window. There are usually eight or nine of them.
My roommate and I locked ourselves out of our apartment at eleven p.m. on a Friday in February. Phones inside. Keys inside. Both of us in socks, having stepped into the hallway to check a strange noise that turned out to be the building's radiator.
Hello everyone. This is Jesus & Iliana Agudo. We are founders of Living Is So Big. I would like to say thank you to all that have stayed in touch with us and Christopher since the inception of Living Is So Big on April 14th 2010.
We have new and exciting ideas to continue our journey of spreading Life Appreciation to all. Stay tuned and follow us on this upcoming journey. It's going to be lots of fun.
On a trip to Iceland in February, my partner and I hiked forty-five minutes through a snowy valley to a natural hot spring in a river. The guidebook said it was "worth it." The guidebook was an understatement.
When I moved to Tokyo for work, I didn't speak Japanese and didn't know anyone. On my first night, I wandered into a tiny ramen shop near my apartment with eight seats at a counter and a cook who looked about seventy.
My aunt Teresa has collected snow globes since 1979. There are two hundred and eleven of them on a long shelf in her dining room, each one from somewhere she's been or someone who thought of her.
In the corner of my grandfather's woodworking shop, there's a radio that's been tuned to the same classic country station since 1974. It's covered in sawdust. Its antenna is held on with tape.
