I read it slowly, like someone turning over sea glass in her hand — each line catching the light a little differently. And to see Reverse Legacy woven so thoughtfully into your own reflections… that means more than you know. You caught the heart of it: not what we leave behind, but what we live out loud while we still can.
Your parents’ story stopped me — the desert, the RV, the long stretches without being reachable, the unapologetic choosing of their own life. That’s a legacy with texture. Imperfect, human, honest. A map your kids and grandkids can actually use.
And your vow — to be what I say I believe — almost made me put my phone down just to sit with it. It’s the kind of line that rearranges the room for a minute.
What I love most is that you’re naming what so many of us in this “sandwich” generation feel but struggle to articulate: looking back at the legacy we inherited, looking forward at the legacy we’re shaping, and somehow trying to live in a way that honors both without being swallowed by either.
Thank you for the generous mention, and for letting my work be one thread in this beautiful piece of weaving you’ve done here. I’m honored to be part of your mental inbox this week!
It’s funny, that line. When I first wrote it, I wasn’t even sure if it meant anything. But I let it stand. I leave my writing for a bit, and then I come back for a read through. And when I read it again, I knew exactly what it meant. It kind of shook me too.
That’s when I realized it was actually a vow.
It’s a big challenge: you first have to know what you believe to be it.
There is no roadmap for that. It’s uncharted territory. Who knows where it will take me.
Yes! That’s the thing about the lines that come from somewhere deeper: they don’t always make sense in the moment you write them. They reveal themselves later, after they’ve had time to echo a little.
And you’re right — calling it a vow is no small thing. It’s one thing to write a pretty sentence; it’s another to realize it’s a compass.
“Be what I say I believe” sounds simple until you try to live it. Like you said, it requires the uncomfortable first step of actually knowing what you believe — not what you’ve inherited, not what’s expected, but what’s yours. No roadmap, no guideposts, just the slow work of walking toward your own truth.
But uncharted territory is where the most honest chapters happen. I have a feeling this vow is going to take you somewhere good.
This stayed with me, especially the line: “What if the best gift we could give them wasn’t what we left — but what they saw us live?”
Maybe because I grew up in a Caribbean household where legacy was always spoken about in terms of sacrifice and inheritance — the land you might never see, the money someone swears is coming “one day,” the dreams pinned to a child like a note to the future.
But what I’ve realized, traveling and writing and rebuilding myself these past few years, is that the most durable legacy is presence. The way a parent lives in front of you. The courage (or fear) you witness. The joy they allow themselves to have, or deny themselves.
Your reflection reminded me that our children don’t just inherit our belongings — they inherit our patterns.
And sometimes the most generous thing we can pass down is a life we actually inhabited.
Thank you for this piece. It met me right where I am.
JL — this piece is stunning. Truly.
I read it slowly, like someone turning over sea glass in her hand — each line catching the light a little differently. And to see Reverse Legacy woven so thoughtfully into your own reflections… that means more than you know. You caught the heart of it: not what we leave behind, but what we live out loud while we still can.
Your parents’ story stopped me — the desert, the RV, the long stretches without being reachable, the unapologetic choosing of their own life. That’s a legacy with texture. Imperfect, human, honest. A map your kids and grandkids can actually use.
And your vow — to be what I say I believe — almost made me put my phone down just to sit with it. It’s the kind of line that rearranges the room for a minute.
What I love most is that you’re naming what so many of us in this “sandwich” generation feel but struggle to articulate: looking back at the legacy we inherited, looking forward at the legacy we’re shaping, and somehow trying to live in a way that honors both without being swallowed by either.
Thank you for the generous mention, and for letting my work be one thread in this beautiful piece of weaving you’ve done here. I’m honored to be part of your mental inbox this week!
💛 Kelly
Thank you Kelly. You are always so generous.
It’s funny, that line. When I first wrote it, I wasn’t even sure if it meant anything. But I let it stand. I leave my writing for a bit, and then I come back for a read through. And when I read it again, I knew exactly what it meant. It kind of shook me too.
That’s when I realized it was actually a vow.
It’s a big challenge: you first have to know what you believe to be it.
There is no roadmap for that. It’s uncharted territory. Who knows where it will take me.
Yes! That’s the thing about the lines that come from somewhere deeper: they don’t always make sense in the moment you write them. They reveal themselves later, after they’ve had time to echo a little.
And you’re right — calling it a vow is no small thing. It’s one thing to write a pretty sentence; it’s another to realize it’s a compass.
“Be what I say I believe” sounds simple until you try to live it. Like you said, it requires the uncomfortable first step of actually knowing what you believe — not what you’ve inherited, not what’s expected, but what’s yours. No roadmap, no guideposts, just the slow work of walking toward your own truth.
But uncharted territory is where the most honest chapters happen. I have a feeling this vow is going to take you somewhere good.
💛 Kelly
Definitely!
This stayed with me, especially the line: “What if the best gift we could give them wasn’t what we left — but what they saw us live?”
Maybe because I grew up in a Caribbean household where legacy was always spoken about in terms of sacrifice and inheritance — the land you might never see, the money someone swears is coming “one day,” the dreams pinned to a child like a note to the future.
But what I’ve realized, traveling and writing and rebuilding myself these past few years, is that the most durable legacy is presence. The way a parent lives in front of you. The courage (or fear) you witness. The joy they allow themselves to have, or deny themselves.
Your reflection reminded me that our children don’t just inherit our belongings — they inherit our patterns.
And sometimes the most generous thing we can pass down is a life we actually inhabited.
Thank you for this piece. It met me right where I am.
I’m so pleased that it spoke to you.