And What If the Legacy Is the Invisible?

Sometimes we search for legacy in the things that remain—the heirlooms, the recipes, the photo albums, the handwriting in old notebooks. But over time, I’ve come to believe that the deepest legacy doesn’t live in objects. It lives in gestures. In presence. In the things that aren’t seen but are felt.

The longer I walk this path—accompanying people in their goodbyes, hearing stories of those who’ve left, creating rituals of farewell through Pachamama—the more I realize how powerful the invisible is.

A certain laugh.
The way someone paused before speaking.
The way they listened.
The way they loved.

These are the things we carry without even noticing. The warmth that wraps around us when we hear a song that reminds us of them. The way we speak to others with a tenderness we learned from their example. The way their spirit lives on in how we hold space, how we cook, how we comfort, how we live.

No one will inherit those moments in a box.
But we carry them just the same.

In my own story, I didn’t bring many physical things back from my mom’s apartment. I wasn’t attached to objects. I kept a few notes, a photo, a book. But what I truly brought back with me was her essence. That soft way she had of seeing people. Her rituals of care. Her presence on a Sunday evening, calling just to say “tell me about your week.”

Those things still live in me. They show up in how I write, how I listen, how I create.
They’re with me every time I sit with a family designing a ceremony. Every time I hand-tie a flower, choose a song, or close a kit gently with care.

That is her legacy.
Not visible.
But absolutely alive.

So if you’re wondering how to carry forward someone you love, maybe the answer doesn’t have to be grand. Maybe it’s in how you hug your children.
In how you care for your garden.
In how you remember to say “thank you” with your eyes.

Legacy doesn’t have to be loud.
It can whisper.
It can move through you like breath.

And maybe, just maybe, the invisible is the part that never fades.

With tenderness,
Virginia