I often talk about planning for after death—but today, I want to talk about the time we have before. Because the truth is, legacy doesn’t start when we’re gone. It’s being written right now—in the choices we make, the time we spend, and the way we show up for the people we love.
Because your life, lived fully and fiercely, is your greatest legacy.
Do the thing. Take the trip. Start the business. Learn the skill. Say the words. Send your kid to camp. Make the pivot. Help your neighbor. Spend the time.
"You will be remembered not for what you had, but for how you loved—and how you made others feel while you were here."
Last week, Central Texas experienced unimaginable loss. The floods swept away more than homes. Entire families. Children. Campers. Over one hundred lives gone. It’s hard to even say that number out loud. It has taken me days to find the words, because no words can fill that silence.
This wasn’t just national news. This was personal.
As a child, I was given the gift of camp. Though I didn’t attend Camp Mystic, many of my dearest friends did. And when I see the photos and hear the stories, it mirrors my own experience: the songs, the traditions, the grit. I spent nine summers at camp—seven as a camper, two as a counselor. When I look back over my 41 years, camp is etched in the top three. Not for what we did, but for how it shaped who we became.
Camp teaches you to do scary things—rappelling off a cliff, swimming a mile, standing up in front of a crowd. It teaches independence, resilience, teamwork, courage, how to say sorry, how to try again. It’s where laughter echoes louder than fear and where friendships take root so deep they last lifetimes.
One of those roots? My bunkmate, Megan. We met as girls under a tin roof in the Texas heat, whispering late into the night about dreams, boys, and what we wanted to become. All these years later, we’re still here—still friends. Still sisters in the way only camp can forge. That’s what camp gives you. Lifelong connection. A second family. A place where your soul feels known.
And now, as a mom, I see camp through a different lens. The memories hit differently when you’re thinking about your own kids—what they’ll experience, what they’ll carry, who they’ll become.
The girls who passed away were the same age as my sons. That’s what undid me. I kept seeing their faces in place of my boys’. I imagined their bunkmates, their counselors, their parents waiting for news that would never come.
Two of those girls were best friends—Eloise Peck and Lila Bonner. Their cabin at Camp Mystic was swept away by the river that night. They were in Bubble Inn. They were still in their friendship years, still learning who they were. From the photos and stories shared by their families, it’s clear: they had that same spark I remember. That bond. That light. They should’ve had decades ahead to keep growing, laughing, calling each other on hard days, and picking up right where they left off.
It brought me right back to Megan. To what it meant to grow up with someone like that. To have someone who knew you before you had words for who you were.
My boys aren’t ready for sleepaway camp yet—but someday, I hope they’ll experience the same kind of joy and growth I did. Still, it’s hard not to wonder: how do we send them into the world with courage when fear feels so close?
To lose a child, a sibling, a best friend in that sacred space of growth… it’s devastating beyond comprehension. And yet, I still believe—deeply—that we must live. We must not let fear be louder than joy.
The temptation now is to shrink. To cancel the camp plans. Skip the trip. Say “maybe next year.” But if there is one thing this heartbreak has made crystal clear, it’s this:
You don’t get to schedule when it’s too late.
We talk so often about legacy in terms of wills, trusts, and financial planning—and yes, those matter deeply. But legacy isn’t built on paperwork. It’s built on presence.
So today, while we mourn—please, feel it fully—I want to gently ask you this:
Are you living the kind of life you want remembered?
Your legacy is how you spend your time. Who you spend it with. What you model. How you love. How you show up even when you’re scared.
Whether it’s a letter to your children, a memory fund for your grandkids’ camp experience, a planned family trip, or simply more moments of eye contact and less time on your phone—these are legacy decisions too.
Because someday, it won’t be the bank accounts that echo. It will be the way you made people feel. The sounds of your voice. The strength of your laughter. The comfort of your care.
Let’s honor those we lost by living better, not smaller.
Let’s build legacies that aren’t measured in assets—but in awe.
How you can help
Please consider supporting the victims of the recent floods by donating to:
