I was twenty-five years old when grief first shattered my world. My best friend, Tanya, passed away in childbirth. We had met in kindergarten, just four and five years old, and from that moment, we were inseparable. As children, we dressed alike and called each other sisters. We even picked our mosquito bites and rubbed our blood together to become official “blood sisters.” As an only child, she was the closest person I had to a sibling.
Like many friendships, we drifted apart in our teenage years, attending different schools and following separate paths. But when we reconnected, our bond deepened. Tanya was brilliant, witty, and full of life. When she became pregnant, she was overjoyed, and I was to be “Ant Hill,” a playful name she coined from my name, Hilary. We laughed about it endlessly. But behind her excitement, she was terrified.
She called me often, confessing her fear of childbirth. “Hilary, no, you’re not hearing me,” she would say. “I am really scared.” I tried to reassure her, telling her that she was strong and that women had been giving birth for centuries. I believed she would be okay. But she wasn’t. Tanya suffered an amniotic fluid embolism and didn’t survive. A beat of her heart killed her right when her daughter was born. Her daughter, Sienna, lived—a beautiful but bittersweet reality.
As Sienna grew, she longed to know her mother—not just the sanitized, idealized version but her real, full essence. She wanted to know what Tanya loved, what made her laugh, what frustrated her, and who she was beyond the stories people tell after someone is gone. This realization struck me deeply: when we lose someone, we are left with fragmented memories, often incomplete. So, when Sienna turned sixteen, I gathered photos and reached out to Tanya’s friends, collecting their stories and impressions of her. I compiled everything into a scrapbook and gave it to Sienna. It was a profoundly moving experience, one that planted the seed for My Legacy Story.
Not long after, I began working as an activity coordinator in an independent living facility. I started a project called My Legacy Story, where seniors could document their life experiences through guided questions. We gathered in a circle, shared tea and cookies, and took time to reflect and write. I was in my forties, sitting with people in their seventies, eighties, and nineties, and I realized something profound: the human experience is timeless. No matter our age, we all grapple with love, loss, hope, and meaning.
Many of these seniors had already let go of their homes, their spouses, and the distractions of daily life. In this reflective stage, they sought to make sense of their journey—to share their lessons, regrets, joys, and wisdom with their families. One woman, a regular participant in our legacy circles, passed away suddenly. When her daughter came to clear out her belongings, she found the My Legacy Story workbook her mother had filled out. She came to me saying, “I talked to my mom every day. I thought I knew her. But this… this is different. This is her voice, her thoughts, her essence. There was so much I didn’t know.” That moment reaffirmed my belief in the importance of documenting our stories.
Through my research, I found that most legacy projects culminate in a single printed book. But our lives are meant to be shared with more than just one person. This is why My Legacy Story is an online platform, offering a secure, password-protected space where individuals control who sees their words. It ensures that memories, wisdom, and experiences are not just preserved but shared intentionally with loved ones across generations.
If you’re reading this, I encourage you to start the conversation with your loved ones. Ask the big questions. Listen with curiosity. Share your own experiences. We are all unique in our journeys, yet profoundly connected in our humanity. This, I believe, is the most beautiful part of living.