It's strange because you - your life goes so swiftly. You look up

“It’s strange because you — your life goes so swiftly. You look up one day you’re a teenager, the next day you’re a grandfather and you want to decide, ‘I sure hope my kids don’t make the same mistakes.’” Thus spoke George Foreman, the giant of strength and spirit, whose life itself stands as a parable of change and redemption. In these humble words, the once-mighty champion reveals a truth that belongs not only to boxers or heroes, but to all who walk the fleeting road of human life. His voice carries the quiet astonishment of one who has fought not only men in the ring, but also time, regret, and memory. He speaks to the tragedy and beauty of life’s swiftness, and to the wisdom that dawns too late for ourselves, yet we hope will guide those who come after us.

Foreman’s reflection arises from the long arc of his own life—a life that burned like a torch in its youth, dimmed in disillusionment, and was rekindled by faith and fatherhood. As a young man, he was a fierce fighter, crowned the heavyweight champion of the world, feared by all who faced him. But fame and pride can be cruel companions. His defeat to Muhammad Ali in the “Rumble in the Jungle” broke more than his body; it wounded his spirit. He walked away from boxing, from glory, and from himself. Yet in time, like a man reborn, he returned—not merely to reclaim his title, but to redeem his life, to prove that even a fallen man can rise again. It was in these later years, as an older and gentler soul, that he saw how swiftly the days had passed—how the fierce youth he once was had become the wise grandfather he now is.

When Foreman says, “life goes so swiftly,” he speaks to the eternal lament of humanity—that time is both our gift and our thief. We live believing we have forever, yet forever slips through our fingers like dust. The ancients too knew this sorrow. The philosopher Seneca wrote that “life is long if you know how to use it,” warning that most men waste their years in pursuit of trifles, awakening only at the end to find that their treasure was time itself. Foreman’s tone, however, is not one of despair, but of awakening—a realization that wisdom often comes when the body has already begun to fade, and that the only true way to honor it is by passing it forward.

There is tenderness, too, in his words: “I sure hope my kids don’t make the same mistakes.” For in that simple wish lies the deepest instinct of the human heart—to protect one’s children from the pain one has endured. Every parent, every elder, stands at the crossroads of experience, gazing backward at the roads they wish they had not taken. They cannot rewrite their past, but they can illuminate the path ahead for their descendants. In this, Foreman echoes the universal truth of generational wisdom—that the elder’s purpose is not to relive his youth, but to guide the young away from the pitfalls he once fell into.

Think, for a moment, of King Lear, the ancient monarch whose pride blinded him until age stripped away his illusions. Only in his suffering did he see the folly of his choices, crying, “I am a very foolish fond old man.” Yet even in ruin, his heart burned with one hope—that his children might learn from his blindness. So too with George Foreman, who looks upon the swift passage of his life not with bitterness, but with a kind of wonder. He sees that wisdom, though late, is still a gift—and that one generation’s humility may yet save another from pride.

Foreman’s reflection also reveals a paradox of human existence: we understand life only when much of it has already passed. As youth, we are too busy becoming to see what truly matters; as elders, we are rich with understanding but poor in time. And so, we turn our gaze to those who follow, hoping that they will listen—not to our words alone, but to the lessons carved into our lives. This is why the elders of ancient tribes sat at the fireside, telling their stories to the young—not for entertainment, but for preservation, for warning, for love. They knew what Foreman now knows: that to pass on one’s wisdom is to give the next generation a second chance at life.

And so, O listener, take this teaching deeply into your heart. Life is swift, but it is not meaningless. Do not waste its mornings in arrogance nor its evenings in regret. Learn while the sun still shines upon your youth, for the lessons of humility, kindness, and reflection are not meant only for the old. Seek out the counsel of those who came before you—your parents, your elders, your mentors—for within their scars lies the map of your future. And when your own days have ripened and slowed, speak your wisdom freely, that others may walk wiser than you did.

For this is the circle of life and legacy—to stumble, to learn, to teach, to love. As George Foreman reminds us, you will one day look up and realize that your youth has become memory and your children have become your reflection. In that moment, may your heart be at peace, knowing that you lived not just for yourself, but for those who would come after you—and that though life moves swiftly, wisdom endures.