The Legacy We Leave: A Question Worth Asking Before the Year Ends

Needless to say, it’s been an extremely sad news week. One of those weeks where every time you open your phone, your chest tightens just a little bit more. They say death comes in threes, and this one certainly made its case.

A shooting near Brown University that cut short two bright, promising young lives. Violence at Bondi Beach during a Hanukkah gathering: a moment meant for light, joy, and community, shattered instead by fear. And the deeply disturbing deaths of Rob and Michele Reiner, taken violently by their own son.

There’s no neat way to make sense of any of that. It’s senseless and horrifying and leaves you with that familiar, helpless question: What is wrong with the world?

And yet (because Instagram is always listening), my feed started filling up with posts about Rob and Michele Reiner from friends, colleagues, and celebrities alike, people who clearly didn’t just know them, but loved them deeply.

What struck me was how often the same things came up: their patriotism, their humanity, their devotion as parents, and their loyalty as friends. They were people who showed up, who cared loudly and consistently, and whose absence leaves behind a real, aching void.

It made me think about how, when everything else falls away, the way we live and the way we treat others is the only legacy that actually lasts. Not the money, not the followers, not the headlines, but the imprint we leave on the people around us.

And maybe that feels especially heavy right now as we head into the holidays, a season that’s supposed to be about warmth and connection but often ends up feeling rushed, transactional, and emotionally overdrawn. It got me thinking that legacy isn’t always something we set out to create. It isn’t about grand gestures or changing the world overnight, but about the quieter choices we make every day: calling the friend you’ve been meaning to check on, being more patient with your kids when everyone’s running on fumes, or offering a little extra grace to the stranger who clearly needs it. It’s about showing up in the small, unglamorous moments — the ones no one is applauding, but that somehow matter the most.

That idea stayed with me. Especially because, almost immediately after, I started watching the P. Diddy documentary, and the contrast couldn’t have been starker. Power hoarded instead of shared. Harm buried instead of healed. It was a reminder that no matter how carefully something is curated, the truth eventually surfaces.

The bad stuff always comes out, so if that’s the case, make sure it’s good stuff.

Show up kindly, love loudly, and leave a legacy that speaks for you when you no longer can.