Writing my will sent me into an existential spiral. Suddenly, I was considering my past and future. What does it mean to build a life? What do I want to leave behind?
This fall, my partner and I worked with a family law attorney to write our wills and advance directives. We had attempted this 10 years ago, after the birth of our first child, but abandoned the project amid sleep deprivation and the overwhelming responsibilities of new parenthood. Now, with two growing children and more experience navigating the losses and logistics of adulthood, we decided it was time to complete the task.
During a two-hour meeting with our lawyer, we were asked to consider scenarios regarding the future of our children if we were to both pass away. Who would raise them? Who would manage their inheritances until they were old enough to do so themselves?
Though these are standard questions for writing a will, they sent me into an existential spiral. Suddenly, I was questioning what it means to build a life, and what I wanted to leave behind.
Since November, I’ve been grappling with the reality of living under a political regime that contradicts my values. I’ve long advocated for universal healthcare, racial equity in maternal healthcare, paid family leave, and living wages for domestic workers. I’ve been saying for years that while total bodily autonomy for all people may not be possible in my lifetime, it could be in my children’s lifetime. But with the political climate shifting in ways I fear, I’m beginning to consider the possibility of living much of my life under a government whose policies are antithetical to my beliefs one that opposes labor protections and environmental regulation, and is rooted in cruelty rather than care.
As our lawyer discussed ways to shield our children’s inheritance from estate taxes, I found myself wanting to speak up: “Actually, I’m fine with taxes! I believe in the social safety net!” But I kept quiet, telling myself that, as a parent, I just wanted what was best for my children.
I had hoped we would leave the next generation with a better world, one that we could be proud of for its virtues and accomplishments. But the reality of not being able to do so, coupled with my own complicity, leaves me feeling sad and disappointed. My legacy won’t be simple or noble, but it will be human.
I also think about the personal legacy I’m leaving behind. My younger daughter, at six, sometimes calls herself “dumb,” “stupid,” “ugly,” and “useless.” We’ve never used these words to describe her, but she has absorbed them, often when she senses frustration or upset. This, too, is part of her inheritance. I know the tendency to internalize negative feelings. I spent years doing the same, having been raised in an environment where I was never allowed to fully express sadness, anger, or hurt.
I want to change that. So, I sit with her and urge her not to internalize those feelings. I tell her that if she lets me love her, she won’t need to tell herself things that simply aren’t true. Most days, this approach works.
“There is no other world. This is the only world we are in,” a passage I once read, resonates deeply with me. It reminds me to hold on to what matters, even when the world feels uncertain. In this world, I want to continue doing what I can to help my children grow into their whole selves. I believe that what is best for my children is what is best for everyone, especially the most vulnerable.
Every day, I will show up for my children imperfectly, prone to tears, sometimes unsure of what I have to offer. But I will get them ready for the world we live in, teaching them to pursue joy, to care for themselves and others, and to fight for their freedom. My legacy will be in the way I model and prepare them to carry this work forward long after I am gone.
