Today I caught myself.
Someone asked me recently about legacy work, and it made me realize something I had never really examined before.
If you were to ask me what someone should leave behind, I probably wouldn’t begin with a memoir.
I wouldn’t immediately suggest writing a book or creating a collection of stories to be discovered after they’re gone.
Instead, my instinct is almost always to encourage conversations.
Sit with your daughter.
Tell your grandson the story while he can still ask questions.
Record your voice if you’d like, but better yet, let someone hear it in person.
Leave your wishes, yes.
Share your experiences.
But don’t wait to tell the people you love what they have meant to you.
As I thought about it more, I realized something uncomfortable.
This isn’t just a preference.
It’s my bias.
Not because I don’t value memoirs. I do.
Not because I don’t think legacy books, ethical wills, memory journals, recipe collections, or recorded stories matter. They absolutely do.
It’s simply not where my own compass naturally points.
That realization made me stop and ask an important question.
If I ask others to become more aware of their values, shouldn’t I also become more aware of my own?
As facilitators, whether we are death doulas, grief professionals, life review practitioners, therapists, hospice volunteers, clergy, social workers, photographers, memoir coaches, or simply people walking alongside another human being, we all carry preferences.
Some of us naturally think in photographs.
Others think in journals.
Some create quilts.
Some preserve recipes.
Some record family histories.
And some, like me, are continually drawn toward conversations.
None of those are wrong.
The danger isn’t having a preference.
The danger is quietly assuming our preferred way is the best way for everyone else.
That is where curiosity becomes one of the greatest tools a facilitator can possess.
Instead of asking,
“What legacy project should I recommend?”
Perhaps we should begin with,
“How does this person naturally express love?”
Maybe they have always been a storyteller around the dinner table.
Maybe they write letters.
Maybe they save every birthday card.
Maybe they plant trees.
Maybe they teach recipes by standing shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen.
Maybe they have never written more than a grocery list but can hold an entire room with a story.
Legacy doesn’t begin with a product.
It begins with a person.
The role of a facilitator is not to fit people into our favorite method.
It is to help them discover the one that already fits who they are.
Ironically, this realization has made me appreciate memoirs even more.
Not because I suddenly want everyone to write one.
But because I recognize they are exactly right for some people.
Just as conversations are exactly right for others.
Perhaps becoming a better legacy facilitator isn’t about learning more projects.
Perhaps it’s about becoming more aware of the invisible compass we bring into every conversation.
Because once we recognize our own preferences, we become a little more capable of seeing the person sitting in front of us.
And isn’t that the greatest legacy we can offer anyone?
To help them leave behind something that truly sounds like them, not like us.
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