I know I want to be remembered.
I want a legacy, a community, a mark that says, I was here and I mattered.
I know I envy the people who build big circles around them—rooms full of students, loyal clients, familiar faces who show up again and again.
I know I want that too. Or at least, I think I do.

But who do I want to be remembered by? And why?
Do I want to be vaguely remembered by a student I had in a yoga class?
Or do I want my kids and their friends to remember that my house was a happy house, a house filled with cookies and crafts, a safe place to be a kid.

I also know that I’m tired.
I know sometimes I wonder if the wanting is mine, or just something I was taught:
A good life leaves a legacy. A good woman gives and gives until she’s emptied herself into everyone else’s cups. A good mother, a good guide, a good doula, a good teacher.
Sometimes (a lot of times recently), I wonder if the reason I want to “be a big deal” is because I was always taught (through religion and conditioning) that I’m “supposed” to leave a legacy.
Legacy is a big fucking word. It’s heavy. It’s not a word that a child can fully graps without a little guidance.
And so, I was left fumbling through that word, always wanting to be famous somehow…a singer, a writer, a doula, a yoga instructor.
That’s left a huge, gaping, wound in me that I fear will never heal.

I know I’m afraid I’ll never feel satisfied. That nothing will ever be enough. That no matter what I build, there will always be something more to chase.
And that thought breaks my heart a little.
The idea of never being happy and always wanting more? It’s so…exhausting. And overwhelming. And dumb.

I know I want to be productive—physically, mentally, financially.
I know I want to rest too.
I know I want a soft place to land where I can just be without feeling like I’m wasting something precious.

I know that legacy might not look like a crowded class or a packed calendar.
Maybe it’s quieter than that. Smaller. Softer.
A student who feels seen. A mom who finds her breath again.
A child who remembers me laughing in the kitchen.
A page of words that remind me: I am here. I am enough. Even when I’m not producing or proving or pleasing.

That’s what I know right now.