In the 1950s, Paul Harvey’s voice was a constant in my house. My mother listened to his radio broadcasts while ironing, cleaning, and cooking. I especially remember the noon broadcasts when I’d hurry home from grammar school for lunch. I was too young to appreciate his wisdom then, but his deep, confident sign-off—“This is Paul Harvey... Good Day”—was a reassuring presence in my tumultuous world.

Some moments speak to us. Perhaps not when they unfold, but later in life, those moments gain significance, like a snowball picking up volume and velocity rolling down a hill.  They are often the quiet moments of no significant celebration or life event. They are everyday gems we store in our memory without knowing they will present themselves at the right moment. We pay homage to their significance. In our present, they are guideposts. And in the future, they will be part of our legacy. 

I look forward to the Kennedy Center Honors every year. The tradition began in 1978 when the first honorees included Fred Astaire and Arthur Rubinstein. Fifty years ago, I enjoyed watching because I either loved their work or discovered artists whose brilliance I had yet to explore. Five decades later, I think about how art shapes us, transcends generations, and teaches us about each other.

The year is coming to a close. I wish to reflect on my journey of words and stories. Each blog post has been a window into moments, memories, and lessons that shaped my life. I hope that the universal qualities of some of my experiences and musings spurred you to think about your stories and how to express them.

Fifteen years ago, as my mother Carol’s journey with Alzheimer’s was drawing to a close, I created an iPod playlist for her. It was a compilation of songs that transported her—and me—to a time when music filled her life with joy, defiance, and humor.

Our lives are comprised of moments that jump out at us like deer crossing our paths on a secluded country road. Some moments are not a second thought as we focus on the challenges of our businesses or everyday lives.

Some moments surprise us because they are vivid. We can touch them, although they may have happened decades ago. 

Some moments are dreams about our future. A child’s future graduation, a business sale, or a long-awaited adventure are moments that become real to us.

But what if the finest moment in our lives hasn’t happened yet?

I started my real estate career at sixty, joining a small boutique firm in the heart of Chicago. It was a bold move at the time, diving into a new industry and stepping outside my comfort zone. With a background in project management, where I worked behind the scenes in Information Technology for forty years, entering sales and relationship-building was foreign to me, yet I was determined to make it work.

Isabel Allende's profound statement, ‘Write what should not be forgotten,’ in her essay Writing as an Act of Hope, speaks to all of us. We all have stories, or stories we know from our grandparents or relatives, that we have not taken the time to write down. It’s easy to think we’ll get to it, and it’s also easy to think it doesn’t matter. That everyone who matters knows the stories.

For many of us who were children in 1963, the assassination of President John F. Kennedy is a moment we cannot forget—a day when the world changed in an instant. Although we did not understand the importance of the world or politics, there was a foreboding sense of lost security. We were years away from articulating a sense of lost innocence. 

It’s a unique privilege to be a consultant with the OUR LEGACY book series, where we offer you the exclusive opportunity to pen your long-awaited Legacy memoir. Everyone has a story to write. Everyone has a legacy to pass on.

I am an amateur nature photographer and writer. I frequently muse about what these two activities have in common, and there are many. A main commonality is the power of observation and framing that observation so it is appealing to an audience. The photographer's eye sees a flower or the moon or the sun rising and knows how to place it in a frame, increase or decrease the light, and keep the subject as the point of focus. The writer knows how to frame a scene by describing it with words and providing an image in the minds of their readers. 

Standing at the familiar corner, I thought about the journey the deposit sparked and how a small action shaped so much of my life. Our lives are often shaped by small, seemingly inconsequential steps—moments, decisions, or reactions that feel like little more than a pebble tossed into a pond yet ripple outward in powerful and unexpected ways.

Letting go is a challenge we all face on repeat in our lives. We let go of who we were for who we’ve become. We let go of parents, children, homes, careers, and more. We can all think of hundreds of personal stories about letting go and finding something at the end of the process that offers solace, possibility, growth, or a new way of being. Joseph Campbell’s Heros Journey embraces and sets a familiar structure around our journeys of letting go.  

I relished hearing the stories I had never heard—stories about my Grandfather growing up with his two brothers and the tough times their parents faced immigrating from Russia and opening a fruit stand in Los Angeles. During this conversation, Uncle Lou casually mentioned how wonderful it would be to have all these stories written down.

Our basement became her studio—a damp, lit space filled with canvases, tiles, and jars of pastels. I remember wandering downstairs as a scared child: the spider webs, a creaky washing machine, a dryer, and damp and musty air. The scent of old books and art supplies mingled together. Among my father’s stacks of science fiction books, I would peek at her sketchbooks—filled with bold, abstract shapes and landscapes that seemed worlds away from our suburban home.

I was struck by the powerful message that the people we love never truly leave us. As a young woman who had yet to lose her parents, I found solace. Now, from an older age perspective, I find truth and peace. We long for them to be with us, and yet they are in our hearts and memories.They live within us, entwined in our daily moments and reflections.

The stories we heard at the memorial are not unique but universal shared stories of perseverance, innovation, and camaraderie. Everyone involved with the company loves to recount tales of late-night brainstorming sessions, the hurdles they overcame, and the milestones they achieved. Each partner's story built their character, values, and ambitions. They willingly shared their experiences with their families and inspired those around them, including young professionals like Gary and me.  

Your stories are not just tales, they are the threads that weave our family legacy.

Writing about our past and present experiences is a powerful tool for personal and professional growth. As we put our experiences into words, we often discover patterns and themes that might not have been obvious before. This process of reflection and articulation can bring a new level of clarity to our journey, our values, and the lessons we've learned.

As Lissa left, I was struck by the importance of preserving these stories for us and future generations. Our legacies are built from everyday moments; we keep them alive by sharing them. This reflection was a powerful reminder that we all have stories worth telling.