Your Legacy Starts Now

With the Words You Share... or Don't

A good friend of mine died this week. He was in his seventies and in relatively good health; but within about a month of a surprise cancer diagnosis, he was gone. Before passing, he gathered his friends and family and told them, “I don’t need my name on a building or a foundation. You are my legacy.”

The relationships this man made, the time he spent with each of us, the experiences we all came to cherish as a result of being with him—these were so much more important than any heirloom.

The experience got me thinking.

Photo by Boris Smokrovic on Unsplash

Most of us get legacy wrong. We think it’s about stuff: material wealth, physical assets, pieces of property. But rarely, if ever, do we think about words.

The truth, though, is that for most of us, what we say—or fail to say—will outlive just about everything else we do in this life. And we often don’t even consider it.

Jody Noland, a woman I wrote about in my book The Art of Work, has dedicated a good part of her life to helping individuals write letters to loved ones, sharing what they want to say before they pass. What began as a simple series of workshops for those approaching death became a grassroots movement for anyone who wanted to make sure they said what needed to be said to their loved ones before it was too late.

Over time, Jody realized this was something everyone needed, regardless of how close to their end they thought they were. As I learned from my good friend Ray Edwards when we wrote his story of being diagnosed with Parkinson’s and how it changed his life: everyone has a terminal illness. It’s called life.

We are all going to die. In a way, we all are already dying. As soon as a person leaves the womb, they begin their process of moving to the grave. You really never know what’s going to happen or when you just might breathe your last. Life is pretty damn precious, and we need to try to not take a second of it for granted.

The other week, I found myself very lost in the woods overnight, wandering in the dark for fifteen hours, scared I might not make it out alive. It was a metaphor for a lot of things in my life. But it was also a very real reminder of what mattered most to me.

At the time, it did not seem that my death was imminent; but it was a distant possibility. And that reality gave me something to think about for the fifty miles I hiked all night, eventually finding my way to a highway where I was picked up by a police officer at 4:30 in the morning.

When I returned to civilization, everything felt different. Richer. Clearer. The contrast in my life had been turned. It all felt utterly important and at the same time not so serious. Many of my recent concerns and troubles did not weigh so heavily anymore. Yes, I still had bills to pay. I had enough stressors to keep me busy. But nothing was more important than life itself. It all felt so fleeting, so precious.

That night, I hugged my wife hard. I read my daughter a story, cried with my son in bed, kissed them both tenderly and told them I loved them. I made supper for all six of us, complimented my stepdaughters, looked them all in the eyes and tried to tell them what they meant to me—what it all meant. Life, I realized, was a gift. And I did not want to squander any of it anymore.

It’s normal, I think, to think these things after death becomes more real, especially as one begins to enter middle age. I don’t know how much time is left for me. I imagine decades. I hope. But it could be less, much less. And I can now sense that it will all be gone sooner than I realize. Will there be enough time to do what I hoped? Can I become the kind of person I’ve always believed I can be? Or will I go to the grave filled with regrets and uncertainties, plagued by unfulfilled dreams? I actually don’t know.

All these thoughts have haunted me recently. They’ve enriched my experience of being alive, bringing everything into clearer focus. Then, my friend died. Once again, I saw all the ways in which I could be making more of my time here.

All I could think about was people and words. Had I told all my friends what they meant to me? Was I as kind as I could have been? Did I say everything that needed to be said to everyone who needed to hear it? I thought about the stories I wanted to tell, the bits of wisdom I still hoped to share. It got me writing more. Eagerly. Intentionally. Aggressively.

There is a line in the musical Hamilton where the lead character is asked by friends, family, and peers: “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” Alexander Hamilton was forty-seven years old when he was shot to death by Aaron Burr in a duel. The man wrote like he was running out of time, because he was. We all are.

Not much of what we have or can accumulate will remain after our bodies go. Certainly, our relationships will be something of import. But even those, after a generation or two, fade. All that might remain is our words—if we are lucky.

Yes, they’re just words, and one might argue that actions speak louder than language. But I disagree. A kind word, harsh critique, a loving admonition—these things can endure for decades, if not generations. They can leave a lasting impression long after a gesture or action does. Words have the ability to transcend our experiences, to become something more than the daily monotony of living. This, I think, is why we cling to mantras and myths and legends. They are something larger than life, eternal in their own way.

It has been said that people always remember how you made them feel. And I think this is most often true through language. We all have the power to bless and to curse, to praise and to scorn. And what they say affects others in profound ways. I am not saying we should use words to create an enduring legacy for the sake of being remembered. I think such motivations are usually just ego games. What I am saying is that most of us die with some song still stuck inside us. And that is a tragedy.

My friend did not leave this world with much left unsaid. He spoke his truth. He wrote it down, living life to the full for every moment he had. As a result, his wife chose to not give him a memorial. She felt as if he had already lived it. Indeed he had.

May we all attempt to do the same.

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P.S. Over the years, I have seen firsthand the power of saying what needs to be said before it’s too late. If you have something to say—a story to tell, words of wisdom to share—please don’t delay. Write it down. Put in a book. Share it now while you still can. Somehow in some way before it’s too late.

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