I spent my entire weekend doing nothing. I had a lot of work I needed to do, but I didn’t do anything. No one seemed to want to hang out; everyone was busy. So I did nothing.

Knowing that I would have to accomplish something sometime, I went to CNN.com for ideas on what I could write about for my column. While there, I happened upon an article about a “baby bucket list.” It was a bit odd and I was curious. I read for pleasure, not expecting inspiration.

I was not prepared to be so affected by this simple article.

The article was about Avery Canahuati, a 6-month-old girl who was born with Type 1 spinal muscular atrophy, a disease with no cure.

Her parents were devastated, but instead of dwelling on the past, they looked toward the future. They created a bucket list for Avery. Wake up smiling, talk to mommy and daddy, and play with play-dough were just a few items from this list.

I paused. A bucket list is something typically created by adults when they have come to the end of their life. Avery’s parents understood every moment with their little girl was a gift. They knew their time was running out.

Avery died Monday night. Just three days before, the doctors gave her parent’s a “thumbs up,” her father said.

It really struck me how quickly life can change. But this little girl did so much, and her parents made sure they were able to enjoy the time they had. I realized my clock was ticking away, too.

I’m not saying I have a fatal disease. I am, luckily, a healthy young woman. Although I am in good health, I still have a limited amount of time here on Earth. I might die in one hundred years, or I might die in one hundred seconds. Either way, I won’t live forever. Shouldn’t I treat each moment as if it is my last? I don’t want to regret anything I do. I want to be able to look back at my life and be proud.

I regret this past weekend. I know that if I had tried more. I could’ve done something instead of wasting the day away by reading manga. It’s a mistake I won’t make again.

I only live once, but that doesn’t mean I throw caution to the wind; I will take each step carefully, determining if doing something is worth it. It’s a calculated risk. When opportunity knocks, I’ll open the door. And if there is a path I want to go down, but no doors appear, I’ll create my own door. I’ve got to be the best I can be. I’m only here once.

So as the school year finishes and summer begins, remember: Memento mori. Carpe diem. You are mortal, so seize the day.