The Shade We Leave

Do you ever wonder what will be left of you when you’re gone?

The thought may creep in when you’re alone — on quiet nights, in the spaces between conversations, in the hush of an empty room. It’s not just the fear of dying, no. It’s something quieter, something colder. The fear that one day, your name will be nothing more than burnt paper, ash forever lost to time. That the world will move on without you, as if you were never here at all. Your grandchildren may remember you as frail, and their children will acknowledge that you existed. But after that, nothing.

But you’re here now. You exist. And that should be enough… shouldn’t it?

It should, but let me ask you, dear reader. In reference to my previous statement, do you remember your great grandfather’s name? How about your great great grandmother? No? Most of us don’t.

It’s not fair, is it? I’m sure they were good people. My great-grandfather fought in the Second World War. He won medals, he fought Nazis in Africa (I assume, maybe it was the Italians?). The Japanese in Borneo. And returned home a good, but scarred man (I imagine, perhaps he came home unaffected, I really don't know). All I know of him are black and white photos in uniform, sparse stories passed down from my grandparents and father, and old war medals proudly displayed in my father’s glass cabinet, but as I sit here writing to you it came upon me—I honestly can’t recall his name.

So why are the good people forgotten? Why can we remember the names of Hitler, Stalin, or Mao? Why is it that we can blurt out Nero, Caligula, and Qin Shi Huang time and time again? It’s effortless, isn’t it?

But I bet you can’t recall the names of Irena Sendler, Hugh Thompson Jr., or Chiune Sugihara. No? I’m not surprised. Neither did I until I did a quick Google search.

It’s tragic how the good are forgotten. I bet you can name ten evil men or women from history for every upstanding, world-changing hero of the past.

But just think about the people whose lives you’ve touched, even in ways you may not realize. That kind smile to a stranger, the advice you gave to a friend, the love you shared with your family. Those moments might not seem extraordinary, but they’re part of the web of connections that make life meaningful.

That smile you gave the child on the subway yesterday—the one with fat cheeks and curly blonde hair, clinging to her mother’s arm as she stared at you with glazed, sad eyes. Her father was involved in a car accident last week and is critical. She has had very little to smile at. She doesn’t understand completely what’s going on, but just enough to know something terrible is happening. That subtle gesture, that tiny act of kindness, helped her forget for the slightest moment about all the bad things going on in her life.

That homeless man, the one you handed a five-dollar note to, he was a brilliant young man once. He had dreams, ambitions, and a family that adored him. Life unraveled for him in ways he couldn’t control, leaving him on the streets. That five-dollar note wasn’t just money. It was a moment of humanity in a world that often passes him by without a second glance. It reminded him, if only briefly, that he’s still seen, still valued. Still human. He still deserves life.

Or the foreign woman behind the counter at McDonald's. In her country, she was educated, intelligent. She left everything behind in the hopes of a better life - for herself and her family. Now she works a thankless job, enduring abuse from all directions: customers complaining about her English, managers trying to take advantage, even passersby in the shopping centres who dislike her ethnicity. Her religion. Her skin. But you, you gave her a warm smile when you picked up your order. You thanked her. In that brief moment, she felt equal to those around her. In that moment, you showed her not everyone in this strange new country looks down on her. You made her feel human again. You made her feel worth something.

And that friend you consoled last month, the one who said they were "just having a bad day"? They didn’t tell you the full truth… they were feeling lost, maybe even hopeless. They had it all planned out. They wrote their letter. The noose was tied. You don’t know it, but you being a good person. Your words, your presence, reminded them that someone cared, that they weren’t alone in their struggles. You saved a life.

It’s these small, unremarkable moments that weave the fabric of life. You might not realize the weight of your kindness, the depth of your impact. But to someone else, you’re the bright spot in a dark day, the warmth in a cold moment, the proof that goodness still exists in the world.

And maybe one day, years from now, a young child will sit beneath the shade of a tree you planted. Perhaps you dug its roots into the earth on a whim, not knowing how long it would take to grow. Perhaps you planted it with purpose, imagining a future where others might enjoy its shade. That child might be your great-grandchild, sitting with their sibling, their heads tilted back as they gaze at the branches above. They’ll feel the coolness of its shade, the strength of its trunk, and they’ll never know who planted it. They might never think to ask.

But that tree exists because of you. It grows because you cared enough to leave something behind. And in its branches and its roots, your legacy endures - not in a name etched into history, but in a life made better because you were here.

You don’t have to be remembered forever to matter. Your name doesn’t need to be etched in history books, recited in classes to inattentive teenagers, and forever passed through history to leave a mark. The way you’ve shaped the lives of others, the love and kindness you’ve given - that’s your legacy. And it’s a legacy that endures, even if it’s invisible.

You don’t have to be remembered forever to matter.

So, dear reader, when the quiet of the night whispers doubts into your heart, remember this: you exist. You’re here. And that alone is a miracle. You matter, more than you know.

You exist.

Now and forever.

Don’t fear being forgotten.

Fear being remembered for the wrong reasons.