LEGACY IS LOVE THAT STAYS by Deborah Weed

I used to think legacy meant buildings with your name on them. Or bestselling books. Or a bank account that outlives you. But now, I know better. Legacy is the love that stays when everything else falls apart. And no one taught me that more than my father.

He didn’t just raise me. He rescued me. Again and again. Not with fanfare, but with quiet wisdom, daring belief, and a twinkle in his eye that told me I was never alone.


The Pink Bike with Sparkly Tassels
I was just a Girl Scout with a dream: to win a shiny pink bike. Other girls went door to door. My dad handed me a walkie-talkie. When a man in a red shirt hesitated, his voice came crackling through the speaker hidden beneath my sash: “Hey, you in the red shirt, would you like to buy one box or three?”

The man bought three.

I won that bike—but what I really won was an understanding that creativity could change the game. That being different wasn’t just okay—it was powerful.


The Banana Split that Taught Me to Stand Tall
When the neighborhood bully, Kathy, kept pushing me around, I didn’t want to fight. I wanted to disappear. But my dad saw the fire in me I couldn’t yet see in myself.

“If you stand up to her,” he said, “I’ll get you the biggest banana split with all the toppings.”
The next day, I did. I stood up. I shook with fear. But I did it. And that sundae? It tasted like courage.


The Time I Tried to Run Away (But Really Wanted to Be Found)
There was a moment when I packed a pink suitcase full of stuffed animals and mismatched socks and “ran away” to an empty lot. But I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be missed. I wanted someone to come looking for me.

And he did.

My dad drove around the block again and again, scanning every corner. On the third loop, he spotted me. He didn’t scold me. He sat beside me. And when I finally admitted, “I just wanted someone to come looking,” he said:
“I’ll always come looking for you. No matter where you go. I’ll always find you.”


​The Art School Curveball that Saved Me from a Mistake 
At seventeen, I was ready to get married to an older guy named Andy. I thought love was enough. My dad didn’t protest. Instead, he casually said, “Have you thought about art school?” That gentle redirection changed everything. I went to college. I discovered I loved me. My dad didn’t need to fight me. He just handed me the brush and let me paint a different picture.
 

The Boldest Lunch That Landed My First Real Job
After college, I didn’t know how to get into the advertising world. My dad said, “Call the biggest CEO. Ask him to lunch.”

“Dad, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. No one else has the guts to ask.” I did. I shook. I sweat. But I did it. That call landed me a job as an assistant account executive for one of the biggest ad firms in Miami. Because my dad believed boldness beats doubt every time.


When My World Fell Apart, He Was the One Who Helped Me Put It Back Together
Years later, I found myself in a mismatched marriage. When I finally left, dragging my bags and my baby back home, it was my dad who opened the door. He didn’t ask questions. He just said: “You’re safe now.” And little by little, through long walks and tiny moments, he helped me come back to life. When I told him I felt invisible, he filled a bowl with water and added blue food coloring. “Now try to take the drops back,” he said.

“I can’t,” I replied.

“Exactly. Once you touch something, you’re in it forever.” Legacy, he was telling me, isn’t always loud. It’s the love that lingers in everything we touch.


He Taught Me to Pet the Dinosaur
When fear consumed me—of food, of leaving the house, of life—he didn’t offer empty affirmations. He said,
“Fear is like a dinosaur. You don’t run from it. You pet it.” He showed me how to move again. He helped me take one walk around the block, get one haircut, buy one dress. He taught me that healing isn’t one giant leap. It’s a thousand tiny steps.


The Legacy He Left Me
My dad didn’t leave behind a trust fund. But he left a treasure trove of moments that built me back from nothing. He gave me permission to dream, to fail, and to rise again. He taught me that courage often whispers, and legacy lives not in monuments—but in how we make others feel seen.


So, what’s the legacy I hope to leave? That someone will remember me the way I remember him. As the person who showed up. The person who found them. And the person who whispered, “You’ve got this,” when the world said otherwise. Because in the end, legacy isn’t about what we leave behind. It’s about who we lift while we’re still here. ∎