It's come to my attention that the legacy I seek to create with my life is actually quite simple: I wish to be loved, and for everyone I love to know exactly how much I love them.
If that's what I leave this Earth having cultivated, I would be quite content.
Recognizing that giving and receiving love is my true wish for my legacy has freed me up to approach so many other things in my life — my art, my design, my home — with levity.
I came to this realization much like I come to many of my revelations: Through conversations not just with others, but with myself...
In my journals.
I began keeping a journal in the 7th grade, when I was a newly-minted public school student, experiencing the dramatic shift from the bubble of private Catholic school to the vastness of the new student body before me.
My English teacher, Lynne Knight, a celebrated poet, gave us an assignment: Start a journal. Write about our feelings, stories, and what we were going through.
So I did. And I never stopped.
In that one assignment, she changed the trajectory of my life, likely without even realizing it.
It was then that I started not just capturing memories, but processing myriad emotions and experiences as I grew.
Having my journal to turn to has helped me get through sadness, grief, worry, and fear. It's seen me through various forms of heartbreak. It's been the place to sort out confusion, anxiety, and gratitude during COVID. It's been my confidante in good times and bad, through excitement and vulnerability.
And, as I began a new decade of life this past April, it was my journal that helped me slow down, recognize what's most important, and focus on living out my love-centered legacy.
I haven't been perfect in the habit of journaling throughout the years, and it's taken on various forms as my life shifted, but I'm not quite sure what I'd do without it.
And...I'm also ready to let it all burn.
A while ago, I read this article from Danielle LaPorte. In it, she shares how she burned years of old journals, literally watching them go up in smoke.
When I read that, my stomach danced a bit — both with excitement and trepidation.
I have boxes upon boxes of old journals. They take up space. They likely won't be wanted by my children when I'm no longer here.
And, they've served their purpose in being the place where I process.
I'm excited at the prospect of lighting them all up. They're mine to burn. I have that agency; that power.
Yet I worry — these are words I could never write again. They were captured in their purest form; at the time these memories were being formed. Maybe there's something in there that could help someone else. Maybe my words about certain experiences like my childhood sexual assault would help another child who's suffering the same.
And. Maybe it's holding me back from other ways to do the same.
Life is finite. Our legacy is not. If mine is to love and be loved, I have my journals to thank for giving me the space to grow into myself and process that which can only be fully explored in conversation with myself.
Now, I can exercise my power in letting them go, making way for the present to take up the space I wish it to.
As Danielle points out: "There are archivists. And there are burners. It’s a very personal matter. To keep, to torch…it’s your free will. But I can tell you this: Traveling lighter helps me shine brighter."