What will people say at your funeral?

I’ve been to two memorials in the past couple of months. One was a shiva, the other a celebration of life. Different customs, same punch to the gut.

Both men were giants in their own way — not because they were famous or rich or had buildings named after them, but because they showed up. For their families. For their friends. For strangers, even. They gave a damn. They made people feel seen, safe, and part of something bigger than themselves. And when the time came to speak about them, the room didn’t just mourn — it lit up.

Not because they were perfect — far from it. But because they mattered.

So I’ll ask you something that’s been rattling around my head since the last handful of dirt hit the casket:
What will people say about you at your funeral?

Will they remember you as the one who always reached out, even when it was awkward or inconvenient?
The one who made people laugh when they needed it most?
The one who actually listened — like, really listened — instead of waiting for your turn to talk?
Or will it be the usual polite résumé recap: hard worker, nice guy, “loved golf,” etc.?

Because here’s the deal — you’re writing your eulogy right now, with every choice you make.
Every time you show up — or don’t.
Every time you give a shit — or don't.

Legacy isn’t built someday. It’s built today.
In how you treat the barista.
In whether you call your sister back.
In whether you fight for something bigger than your own comfort.

You don’t have to be a saint. But you do have to mean it.
Mean your love. Mean your words. Mean your work.

And when that day comes — and it will — don’t you want the room to crack open with stories, not silence?
Don’t you want people to cry, yes — but also laugh and nod and say, “Damn, we were lucky to have known them.”

So yeah, I left those memorials with a lump in my throat and a fire in my gut.
We don’t get to choose when the curtain falls.
But we sure as hell get to decide how the story goes.

Write a good one.

— Darryl