Legacy.
It’s just one word, and three syllables.
But that word is anything but simple.
Legacy describes the lasting image of us after we’ve left the frame. It describes how we’ll be remembered.
And that can be a tricky subject to broach.
Much like an onion, there are layers to the concept of legacy.
There’s the layer of mortality. Of knowing there will be a time when we’ll no longer be able to add chapters to our story. This truth is as inconceivable as it is inevitable, and many of us struggle to come to terms with it.
There’s the layer of ego. Of obsessing over what others think of us and our accomplishments. Many of us are afflicted with this obsession to some degree, even as society frowns on such selfish fixations.
And then there’s the layer of control. Of when and where we have agency over our narrative.
This layer is the most complicated of the three.
It’s impossible for us to maintain complete control over our legacy, since it lives on long after our heart stops beating. After our light fades, how we’ll ultimately be remembered is anyone’s guess.
We might have a hunch, sure. But as the decades pass and societal norms evolve, what once seemed crystal clear becomes much murkier.
There are many examples of this phenomenon throughout the years. In fact, there’s now a well-known term for it — revisionist history.
And while it’s not a given that our legacy will be rewritten in this manner, it’s certainly a distinct possibility.
Even so, we do have some ability to influence our legacy. The way we live, the values we espouse, and our consistency of purpose can all feed the story others will tell of us.
Shaping that narrative is important work. It’s our only opportunity to have our say, which is why we take on the task so vigorously — even if there’s a chance it will end up fruitless.
It’s this delicate balance, this act of weaving a tale we have no final judgment over, that makes the subject of legacy so intriguing.
And it’s what makes How will you be remembered the most maddening question we face.
The matter of shaping our legacy often comes down to four words.
Do the right thing.
It seems like straightforward advice. Or even common sense.
But the right thing is open to interpretation.
In religious circles, it might mean attending a house of worship, following a certain diet and remaining abstinent until marriage.
In the world of organized crime, it might mean not telling the authorities about your co-conspirators, or not getting behind on your debts.
In the world of politics, it might mean prioritizing your base, or sticking it to the other side of the aisle.
In each instance, those following the code are doing the right thing. They’re staying on the right side of their community’s code of conduct. And they’re ensuring that community will look upon them fondly.
Many of us channel this spirit within our own day-to-day lives. We might not be religious zealots, or mafiosos, or members of the C-suite. But we still fixate on doing what our moral compass deems to be proper.
Through discipline and devotion, we take steps to build our narrative. And we use the community around us as a mirror to gauge our success.
Often times, we’ll use this confirmation bias as a sign of self-righteousness. We’ll assert that our version of the right thing is the one the world will approve of. We’ll believe that we’ll be remembered fondly for years to come, so long as we stick to the path we’ve been following.
But this is delusional.
Our version of the right thing might not be viewed by others as criminal, intolerant or unethical — the way the worlds of organized crime, religion or politics often are. But that version is still heavily biased by our specific worldview. And by the contours of the times we live in.
For instance, smoking was once considered fashionable. Buoyed by public popularity and reinforced by opportunistic advertising, packs of cigarettes were as commonplace as smartphones are today. Restaurants and bars billowed with cigarette smoke, and lighters were everywhere.
Around this time, the number of women in the workforce was increasing. But by and large, women found themselves confined to clerical roles. Hiring women based on their looks was considered acceptable behavior. And so were other practices we now consider discriminatory or abusive.
These days, we would not consider any of this the right thing.
Sure, there are plenty of smokers out there. And there is, sadly, plenty of misogynistic behavior as well. But these behaviors now come with a social stigma — a stigma that could impact our legacy.
Our world is better off because of this evolution. But that doesn’t give us license to act self-righteous.
For even if we’re don’t smoke or abuse women, we’re not doing everything right. There are parts of our day-to-day lives that future generations will look at just as unfavorably as we now look at smoking or gender discrimination.
Our legacy will be rewritten over time. And parts of it might end up tarnished.
There’s no way around it.
So, how should we approach the topic of legacy?
We can start by reframing the question.
We can stop concerning ourselves with how we’ll be remembered, and start thinking about how we’d like to be remembered.
This small tweak puts the power back in our hands. It gets everything back to two dimensions.
By looking at the question this way, we can imagine an ideal future. One unencumbered by the shifting of society and the razor’s edge of revisionist history.
Then, we can imagine how this ideal future would entertain our memory if we were no longer around. And we can work toward bringing that vision to fruition.
This is the way I approach the thorny question of legacy. It’s what grounds me. It’s what inspires me. And it’s what drives me to do my best each and every day.
We can all take a page from this book.
How will you be remembered is insignificant. How would you like to be remembered is everything.