I’m not sure what made me think of it today. Maybe it was the quiet moment in my car before heading into work, coffee cooling in the cupholder, engine humming low beneath a 90s country station. Maybe it was the way the morning fog clung to the hills like a soft memory refusing to lift. Or maybe it was hearing someone speak of a loved one who had passed, their voice trembling with both loss and love.

Or maybe it was just one of those thoughts that floats in, uninvited but persistent:

What is my legacy? And who would deliver my eulogy?

I sat with those questions for a while, letting them stretch out across the silence like a worn quilt pulled over an old truth.

It’s not exactly comfortable, thinking about your own funeral. But it’s clarifying. Because once you strip away the distractions, the pressure, the expectations, the endless list of tasks and timelines, you’re left with something sacred. Not loud or flashy, but quiet and certain, like the creak of a screen door at dusk or the soft clink of dishes being washed in a familiar kitchen.

I started wondering what someone might say about me when I’m no longer here. Would they talk about my job? My accomplishments? Or would they speak about the way I made people feel? Would they remember my laugh, the way I listened, the way I loved with honesty, imperfection, and heart?

And who would be the one to speak for me? Not out of duty, but because they knew the truth. Not just the good parts, but the stubbornness, the doubt, the quiet acts of grace no one saw. The way I folded towels warm from the dryer with care. The way I cried during hymns I knew by heart. The way I showed up, even when it was hard.

That’s when it hit me. Legacy isn’t some grand statement carved into stone. It’s whispered in kitchens thick with the smell of bacon grease and Saturday coffee with my dad. It’s laughed about on porches in the cool hush of evening, as fireflies blink their amen. It’s passed down around tables worn smooth by elbows and prayers.

Legacy is what lingers in the spaces you once filled.

It’s not built overnight. It’s built in the way you show up when it matters, and especially when it doesn’t. In the way you love when it’s inconvenient, or forgive when it’s undeserved. It’s built in authenticity. In being the same person behind closed doors as you are in front of others. It’s in muddy boots at the door, a handwritten note, the steady rhythm of loyalty that doesn’t waver.

And so, while it’s a bit uncomfortable to picture the end, it also helps me live more intentionally. It reminds me to loosen my grip on perfection and grab hold of what matters most.

When my friends and family gather to celebrate my life, I want to be remembered in the most authentic way possible. Not in a glossy highlight reel or a list of achievements, but in the real and raw ways I loved. I want them to remember the way I showed up. The way I made them feel seen. The way I laughed too loud, cried when I prayed, and always tried to leave more grace in my wake than judgment. I hope they tell the stories that make them smile through tears. I hope they remember that I was human, but I was real. And I hope my life speaks long after I’m gone, not through perfection, but through presence.

If that’s my legacy, being remembered as real and not perfect, then let that be enough. Let that be peace.