I’ve been thinking about legacy—not in the grand, memorialized sense, but in the quieter, more human way. The kind that shows up in how we leave fingerprints on the spaces we pass through. The kind that lingers in someone’s tone when they speak your name, or in a policy, a project, a moment of care that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been there.
So I keep asking myself:
What do people say when I’m not in the room?
What do I hope they say?
There’s no performance in the question—no craving for praise. Just a desire for alignment. That who I intend to be, and how I actually show up in the world, are in conversation with each other.
If I had to put it into words, I hope it sounds something like this:
He brought both fire and care.
He could hold tension and tenderness in the same breath.
He wasn’t leading to be seen—he was leading to build something lasting.
He made space. He made room.
That’s the echo I hope follows me.
Not that I was the loudest voice. Not that I held the mic the longest.
But that I helped shape conditions where others could step forward, speak up, and thrive.
I’ve learned that impact isn’t always about scale—it’s about resonance.
And presence isn’t about being everywhere—it’s about being true, even when unseen.
I’m still learning how to do that well. Still evolving. Still building.
But if that’s what remains after I’ve moved through—if someone, somewhere feels more seen, more safe, more powerful because I made room—
then I’ll know I’ve done something right.
