(401) 307-5556There’s a question that haunts me in the quiet moments: When I’m gone, what will people say my life meant?
I used to think the answer would be found in my resume: the titles I held, the projects I completed, the professional milestones I achieved. I thought it would be measured in the things I accumulated, the size of my home, or the make of my car.
I was wrong.
The Things That Actually Matter
If someone asks what my life meant, I hope the answer has nothing to do with my job title or my bank account. Instead, I hope they’ll talk about the memories we made together: the spontaneous road trips, the lazy Sunday mornings, the inside jokes that made us laugh until we cried.
I want them to remember the stories I passed down: the tale of how my grandparents met, the one about my dad using pantyhose for Christmas stockings, the lessons learned from mistakes I wasn’t afraid to share. These stories are the threads that connect generations, the proof that our struggles and triumphs matter beyond our own lifetimes.
I hope they’ll mention the heirlooms I saved. Not because they were expensive, but because they carried meaning. The worn out quilt my grandmother made, that old cow painting from my uncle’s house, the handwritten recipe cards from my aunt, stained with flour and love. These objects aren’t valuable in dollars; they’re priceless because they hold our history.
Relationships Over Recognition
The older I get, the more clearly I see this truth: relationships are everything. Not networking relationships or professional connections, but the deep, messy, beautiful bonds we form with the people who truly know us.Jill’s
The visit with my childhood best friend matters more than the work conference I missed in order to take that trip. The times I spent taking my kids to the beach will outlast any work presentation I ever gave. The weekend visits with my aging grandparents are infinitely more important than the weekend overtime I missed.
When people remember my life, I want them to remember that I showed up. I was present. I put down my phone at dinner. I asked questions and really listened to the answers. I celebrated their victories and sat with them in their pain.
Experiences, Not Possessions
I’ve learned that experiences shape us in ways that possessions never can. The camping trip where everything went wrong but we laughed about it for years. The concert where we sang ourselves hoarse. The quiet evening watching the sunset from the porch. These moments don’t depreciate or collect dust: they become part of who we are.
Material things are wonderful, but they’re just things. They break, they fade, they get replaced. But the experience of building a fire with your kids, of teaching someone to cook your signature dish, of taking your parents on that trip they always dreamed about: those live forever in the hearts of everyone who was there.
Writing the Story That Matters
So when people ask what my life meant, I hope they’ll say this: She made us feel loved. She preserved our family’s stories so we’d always know where we came from. She chose us over her to-do list, again and again. She understood that a life well-lived isn’t measured in accolades or acquisitions, but in the richness of connection and the depth of presence.
This is the legacy I’m building, not in board rooms or bank accounts, but in laughter and tears, in shared meals and handed-down treasures, in moments both ordinary and extraordinary.
This is what I want my life to mean.
And the beautiful thing? It’s not too late for any of us to shift our focus, to invest in what truly matters, to start building a legacy that will warm hearts long after we’re gone.
