Legacy is Lovely: Presence is Better

The other day, Carolyn asked me what I wanted my legacy to be.

It’s a good question, and one we’re often encouraged to ask as celebrants when preparing a funeral ceremony for a grieving family. It also comes up in end-of-life coaching. Legacy can be a powerful way to reflect on the impact we’ve had on the world and on those we love. It’s the echo we leave behind — the ripples of our presence carried forward in the lives of others.

So imagine Carolyn’s (and, if I’m honest, my own) surprise at the answer that sprang from my lips:

“I couldn't care less.”

We went back and forth on it — almost fell out, in the way only mothers and daughters can. And if you’ve ever debated anything with Carolyn, you’ll know it’s like arguing with a friendly, well-researched steamroller. She insisted that legacy obviously matters to me. “Look at the way you are with people—your grandchildren especially,” she said. “Of course you care.”

I dug my heels in (foolish, I know, when you're arguing with a professional). Because here’s how I argued it: we don’t get to choose how we’ll be remembered, so what's the point in fretting about it?

We can try, of course. Write the memoirs, frame the photos, leave the letters, plant the trees, bake the cakes, knit the jumpers, teach the grandkids to sail. And I do all of that, believe me (though I cannot tell a lie: knitting is not my strong suit). But not because I’m trying to shape how I’ll be remembered. Legacy, for me, isn’t something I’m curating. It’s not a monument I’m building so that others will speak fondly of me when I’m gone. People carry their own stories, their own filters, their own interpretations. You can pour your heart into relationships and still be misunderstood. You can try your best, and still fall short in someone else’s eyes. Legacy is something that's remembered through their lens, not ours. We don’t get to be the final editor — and trying to be is not only exhausting, it’s impossible.

I don't care about how people chose to remember me. That's on them. I care about showing up for the messy, fleeting beauty of the present. Life isn’t a dress rehearsal — it’s unfolding now, in the chats over a morning cup of tea in bed, in the gruffalo hunts at Ardkinglass and the sausage sizzles on Kilfinan beach. It's about being a safe haven for a fostered kid who's never had one before, and still being willing to give a cartwheel a go in your sixties because Annabelle asked you to.

Focusing on legacy, I fear, comes at a price. Look at Steve Jobs: he revolutionised the way we live and work, but by many accounts, he wasn’t always easy to be around. His obsession with excellence and innovation often came at the expense of empathy. In his final days, he reportedly expressed regret: not for what he’d built, but for the relationships he’d neglected. His legacy was huge—but so was the personal cost.

Compare that with someone like Ted Lasso. Yes, I know he's a fictional character, but that doesn't mean he can't teach us a thing or two. Ted doesn’t chase legacy. He leads with kindness, patience, and a fierce belief in people. He listens, lifts others, and makes space for vulnerability and growth. He doesn’t need statues. His legacy is written in the hearts of those around him. And he’d probably be the first to say, “If they remember me, great. If not, I hope they remember how I made them feel.”

Now THAT'S something I can get on board with, and judging from the viewing figures for Ted Lasso, I don't think I'm alone. (Also, if you haven't watched it, you can thank me later.) I care about being kind. Being present. Doing my best. I care that the people I love feel seen and supported. But I’m not doing it to win anybody over or to try and safeguard the way people think about me after I'm gone. I’m just trying to meet the moment with authenticity — with humour, curiosity, and care. If that spills over into how I'm remembered, then fair enough — but that's a by-product, not the motivation. And if my loved ones remembering me with affection brings them comfort, then of course I want that for them. I'm not a complete monster.

But that's about them, not me. For me, if legacy is about anything, it’s this: put more in than you take out. Leave the world a bit better than you found it. Help someone breathe a little more easily. Love your people. Show up.

And then let go.

Because your legacy doesn't really belong to you anyway.

And if Carolyn turns out to be right about me caring more than I admit? Well… she’s usually right. Don’t tell her I said that.

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