Legacy. A word that’s been dancing in my mind for months, growing more important, more relevant, more urgent with each passing day.

I found myself wondering—not in a gloomy way—if I were to die today, what would my life amount to? What good would remain because I lived? Who would I have inspired? Would my vision live on, or fade away?

The dictionary defines legacy as “a thing handed on by a predecessor.” But that doesn’t tell the whole story. Legacy is what separates just existing from truly living. It’s born in our past but comes alive in the future. It’s what makes us human.

The thought that my life might amount to nothing meaningful scared me. What was the point of all those years of struggle, of pushing through hard times, of chasing a vision—often at great personal cost?

As these thoughts swirled, I knew I needed to make sure my time here counted for something. And so ‘legacy’ became my guiding word.

The more I thought about legacy, the more I kept coming back to an image from January 2000: ripples spreading across water. At first, those ripples meant influence and impact—inspiring change, shaking things up, helping people live more authentic lives. I was focused on what you could see—the effect, not the cause.

Then it clicked. My legacy isn’t about big influence or impact. It’s much smaller, less flashy, and at first glance, less important.

While all those grand ideas were visible above the surface, my true legacy was hidden below. I’m meant to be a catalyst—someone who starts things rather than finishes them. The person behind the scenes, not in the spotlight. And that feels right to me.

I remembered how at school, while I enjoyed being on stage, I was happier managing productions—working quietly to help others shine. I enjoy speaking to crowds, but I love creating the tools that help others share their message even more.

I slowly realised that a hidden legacy with visible effects matched when I felt most fulfilled. I wasn’t meant to do the big thing and get the applause—I was meant to help make that thing happen. I wasn’t meant to be the ripples changing everything—I was meant to be the pebble that starts those ripples moving.

Being that pebble fascinated me. What would it mean to be something so small—making a tiny splash before disappearing beneath the surface—yet creating waves that change everything they touch?

I’ve always known that my vision of “helping a generation live the life it was made for” is too big to fully achieve. But what if my legacy wasn’t about achieving that impossible dream, but simply breaking the surface and sending out ripples? Ripples that might inspire others to create ripples of their own?

What if everything I’ve written and created are like pebbles—small moments of impact that, as they sink from view, send out ripples that change things forever?

When I’m gone, my gravestone won’t say “He changed the world.” But if I’ve done my best with what I have, maybe it could say “He sent out ripples.” And that would be enough.

So when you think about your own legacy, don’t worry about building monuments. Just do your best with what you have, and help others do the same.

You might not get the glory or even a thank you, but your ripples will create a legacy that lasts. And that’s a legacy worth leaving.