No one ever said on their deathbed, 'Gee, I wish I had spent more

“No one ever said on their deathbed, ‘Gee, I wish I had spent more time alone with my computer.’” — thus spoke Danielle Berry, a pioneer in the world of technology, yet a woman whose wisdom reached beyond the circuits and screens she helped to build. Her words, though touched with humor, strike with the solemnity of truth. They are not merely a jest about machines, but a cry against the emptiness of misplaced devotion — the warning of one who has seen how the tools that promise connection can become walls that imprison the heart. This is a saying for our age, but its soul is ancient: it reminds us that no device can replace the warmth of human presence, no algorithm can mirror the mystery of love, and no glowing screen can light the soul as does another person’s eyes.

The origin of this quote lies in the paradox of our modern age — an era of unprecedented connection and profound loneliness. The computer, symbol of progress, has become both servant and master. It grants access to the world yet steals us from the world we can touch. Danielle Berry, who helped shape the digital frontier, saw the danger not in technology itself, but in the forgetfulness of the heart. She understood that a tool without wisdom becomes a tyrant, and that every innovation must serve humanity, not consume it. Thus, her words stand as both confession and prophecy — that one day, we might awaken to find we have gained the world of information, yet lost the world of intimacy.

In her simple phrasing, Berry touches a truth as old as civilization: that the measure of a life is not in hours worked or screens lit, but in the love shared between souls. To live is not to produce endlessly, but to belong deeply. The ancients knew this well. The philosophers of Greece spoke of friendship as a form of immortality; the sages of the East called compassion the path to enlightenment. It is only in the modern age, blinded by the glow of artificial light, that man has begun to mistake motion for meaning, and data for wisdom.

Consider the story of Steve Jobs, the architect of the digital age, who at the end of his life confessed that wealth and invention were shadows beside the warmth of family and human love. He said, “Non-stop pursuing of wealth will only turn a person into a twisted being.” His words mirror Berry’s — for even those who built the machines that now rule our hours have discovered, too late, that the human spirit cannot be coded or contained. In the stillness of mortality, no one craves more productivity, more updates, more time at a desk. They long for faces, for forgiveness, for the embrace of those they love.

This truth may pierce with guilt, for many live their days behind the veil of the screen — answering emails instead of questions of the heart, chasing efficiency while neglecting empathy. Yet the purpose of such a quote is not to shame, but to awaken. To remember that life is not a program to optimize, but a garden to tend. Every conversation left unspoken, every hug postponed, every sunset unseen for the sake of one more task — these are the quiet tragedies of modern man. For when time runs out, the soul will not ask for another device, but for another moment of connection.

To heed Berry’s wisdom, one must reclaim the sacred art of presence. Speak with your loved ones without the distraction of the screen. Let the phone rest as you share a meal, for no message is more urgent than the beating of the heart beside you. Walk outside and let the wind speak instead of the keyboard. Learn again the language of touch, of laughter, of silence shared between friends. For these are the moments that endure when memory fades and machines fall silent.

The lesson, then, is both simple and profound: invest your time where eternity dwells — in love, in kindness, in human connection. The computer will not remember your warmth, nor mourn your passing. But a friend will. A child will. The world you touch with your heart will bear the mark of your living. Let not the glow of the screen blind you to the greater light within one another.

So live, dear listener, with the end in mind. For on your final day, it will not be the hum of machines that comforts you, but the whisper of familiar voices, the clasp of a hand, the memory of moments fully lived. And then, like Danielle Berry, you will know the truth: that the true measure of a life is not found in circuits or in code — but in the hearts we’ve connected, the love we’ve shared, and the lives we’ve illuminated by our presence.