Skip to main content

I’m Building My Legacy



I read something about Alfred Nobel recently that I haven't been able to stop thinking about.

The story goes that a newspaper mistakenly published his obituary while he was still alive. He got to read how the world would remember him.

Can you imagine?

Most of us don't get that opportunity.

But in a strange way, I feel like I have.

I've had three experiences in my life where things could have ended very differently. Three moments that have forced me, in one way or another, to understand that being here isn't something I get to take completely for granted.

And lately, I've realized I'm thinking less about what I want to accomplish and more about what I want to leave behind.

I'm building my legacy.

That sounds incredibly dramatic when I write it out. Like I should be commissioning a statue or naming a library after myself.

I am doing neither.

I'm talking about the little stuff.

How my kids will remember me.

Whether they knew, without question, that I showed up for them.

Whether another parent felt a little less alone because I fought for something, shared something, or said the thing everyone else was afraid to say.

Whether something in my community is a little better because I was here and cared enough to get involved.

Whether the people I love actually knew I loved them.

And yes, whether I spent enough time actually enjoying this ridiculous life instead of constantly trying to manage it.

I don't think legacy is about being important.

I think it's about leaving fingerprints.

On people. On places. On your family. On your community.

It's the things you teach your children that they'll someday teach theirs. It's the person who decides to speak up because they watched you do it first. It's making something easier for the person who comes after you, even if they never know your name.

Maybe that's what has changed for me.

I've spent a lot of my life surviving things. Fixing things. Fighting things. Getting through the next thing.

I don't want to just get through my life anymore.

I want to build something with it.

I want my children to inherit more than my stuff. I want them to inherit the absolute certainty that their mother loved fiercely, showed up loudly, screwed up plenty, laughed whenever she could, and tried like hell to leave things a little better than she found them.

I don't know what anyone would write about me if today were the end of the story.

But thankfully, today isn't.

So I get to keep writing it.


And I'm paying a lot more attention to what I want it to say.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Fight I Didn’t Know I Had In Me

 On June 8, 2020, I checked into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine procedure. It was a simple D&C, a way to close the chapter on a miscarriage that had already left me feeling hollow. But as I lay in that cold, sterile room, things went terribly wrong. I lost a massive amount of blood—two liters, they later told me—and for a brief, terrifying moment, my heart stopped. They had to bring me back. I don’t remember all the details. I remember the cold of the table, the panic in my chest as I couldn’t breathe, and the voices around me turning frantic. I remember waking up in the ICU, still pale and shaken, realizing just how close I’d come to not going home to my son. Two days later, I was discharged with an iron prescription and a deep ache in my bones—a reminder of how fragile life really is. Even now, years later, I still feel the weight of that day. It’s something I carry with me, quietly woven into my story. I’m sharing this not to dwell on the medical details,...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Anniversary I Never Wanted 3.14

March 14. Three years ago today, I walked into my two-week postpartum visit expecting a routine checkup. I thought I’d hear that I was healing well, maybe get some advice on balancing recovery with life as a mom of two. Instead, I was blindsided. My blood pressure was dangerously high. So high that the doctor refused to let me leave the office without promising to go straight to the hospital. I didn’t get to go home, pack a bag, or prepare myself for what was coming—I was just sent. Alone. Whether it was because of the pandemic, the time of year, or just bad luck, I felt completely isolated. That’s what I remember most—being alone. Sitting in that hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, processing the fact that my body was still betraying me. I had already been through so much, and now, instead of healing, I was back in a place I never wanted to be. Family stepped in to help, making sure everything was handled at home. I knew I wasn’t needed there in that moment, but that was the only pla...
Post a Comment
Read more

Holding It Together When You're Falling Apart

Yesterday, I woke up at 7:30. And yesterday, someone I love had a biopsy. That’s all I want to say about that part. The details don’t really matter—not here, not now. What matters is what came after. Because nobody talks about this part. Nobody talks about what it’s like to function when you’re terrified. What it’s like to go through the motions—packing lunches, tying shoes, driving to school—while carrying the weight of uncertainty. Nobody talks about what it’s like to hold space for someone else’s pain while barely having space for your own. I have PTSD. It clings to me, sneaking into the quiet moments, showing up uninvited. And yet, life doesn’t pause. There are still responsibilities, routines, and people who need me. So I did what I always do. I got up. I got the kids ready. I got them to school. I have help, and I am grateful for that. But even with help, the fear is still there. The waiting is still there. The exhaustion of trying not to react to every trigger, of trying to be s...
Post a Comment
Read more