Check Your Nightstand, and Your Playlist

Last week, my daughter and I spent several days in Idaho helping some of my siblings clean out my mom’s house. It has been almost five months since she passed away, and it is time to make some decisions about the future. As you can imagine, it was a very emotional time. The main purpose of the trip, for all of us, was to sort through and pick up family and sentimental items, in order to distribute them to various family members. For many reasons, I’m grateful to have so many siblings (I have seven), not the least of which is because it makes projects like this easier. While I found that tackling boxes of family memories was too much for me most of the time, my younger sister loved it. As she unpacked photos and family heirlooms, she was invigorated and excited about the contents. I was tackling another assignment when she appeared next to me holding a photo that made me pause. It was of my mom with me and my six younger siblings from a period of time that I sometimes talk about when I speak, but that I don’t often give a lot of space in my life otherwise.

If you follow me on social media, you may have seen that my mom recently passed away. She was just fifty-eight years old. Her death was sudden, unexpected, and still feels like a bad joke I can't find the punchline in. Since her passing, I've found myself processing thoughts and feelings I wasn't ready for. It's taken me a minute to find a path through the sadness, confusion, frustration, and anger. Every day seems to bring it's own new measure of emotions and grief, and I've been advised that I'll likely be facing that for the long haul. With all these feelings, I think it's natural to have regrets, and I do have some. I regret times I wasn't as kind as I could have been to my mom, or when I was impatient or quick-tempered. I regret missed opportunities to give her a hug or to call and see how she's doing or tell her I loved her. I know we were both just doing our best, but now, the window for those opportunities has closed forever. Although those sad thoughts weigh heavily on me, I am grateful that my list of regrets isn't longer. Specifically, I am so grateful that I don't have to regret not having a record of my mom's story, because she wrote one recently. Although she was only in her mid-fifties at the time, at my request and to contribute to a family history we were putting together, my mom put together an overview of her life, which I then helped her flesh out even more. It is just around ten pages, but it includes details of her early life and parentage, growing up, her marriage to my dad, and her feelings about me and each of my siblings. At the time she wrote it, these things helped me to feel closer to her and answered some questions I had about her life. But now, in her death, they mean even more. Although they are just words on a page (and even although they are things I mostly already knew), to my freshly-grieving heart in her death, they have become gold nuggets--a lifeline that allows me to hear my mom's voice and feel her love again. As a personal historian, I have long preached that estate plans, wills, and burial directives are not enough. In preparation for the end of our lives, every conscientious person in the world needs to leave three additional things for their posterity : Your life story , complete with pictures Your ethical will You on film While the importance of preparing for your death financially and legally cannot be overstated, your loss will be most keenly felt personally . The need for something to help fill that chasm when you are gone is huge, and can be summed up in something a woman who hired us to write her parent's stories once said: "When my parents are gone, I'm not going to want their money, I'm going to want them." How true that is. In my mom's sudden death, I would rather have her back than any material possession she bequeathed. I am unspeakably grateful she left us the gift of her story. It isn't her, but it helps me feel closer to her and will be a gift to my children as they grow up without their grandma. Along with all of my memories of her, her story is a gift I will treasure forever. I hope you'll do the same for your family. Sincerely, Kasia

Last week, I had a conversation that really bothered me. I was speaking with a man about an interfaith dialogue group I am a part of . As a spiritual person and an eager consumer, purveyor, and respecter of personal stories, I am thrilled to have a regular opportunity to listen to and learn from others' spiritual and religious journeys. In fact, I was working on recruiting for the next session of this group when the conversation occurred. After sharing with the man some benefits I have received from my own engagement with the group, his reply rather shocked me. He said, "I can go online and, after reading for a couple of hours, come away with a pretty good understanding of who someone is and what they think and feel. So why should I spend time talking to people who I already know I have nothing in common with?" To be honest, I was very taken aback by this attitude. While I think it likely that this man has never been in the position of belonging to a minority or marginalized group before, what really disturbed me was his assumption of understanding after consuming second or even third-hand information. As a personal historian, I am often asked why someone should take the time to record their story when their kids, spouse, or someone else "already know everything" and can tell it themselves. There is an assumption that, because someone knows someone else, they have the ability to speak for them. While those close to us likely (should) know us better than others, it's often something we over-presume. Firstly, our kids typically remember far less information than we give them credit for. And secondly, as any even mediocre student of history can tell you, a second-hand source is never going to be as valid as a first-hand report. The fact is, when we haven't lived the story ourselves, our retelling of it is less credible than the person who did. A funny example from my own life can help illustrate this. I was home visiting my family when I once overheard a close family member telling someone else about my life. This relative and I grew up together and have always been close, so imagine my surprise when I heard them share details with the other person that were actually not true. While they were able to accurately report some of the bigger events of my life, when it came to answering the "why" questions about my motivations or reasons for doing certain things, their answers were totally news to me. Luckily, I was there and able to offer the truth. Had I not been, the person they were speaking to might have adopted a whole different understanding and idea of me than was actually the case. Maybe you have been there. Someone who you think knows the ins-and-outs of your story forgets details, misunderstands, or misrepresents aspects of it. Not because they have the intention to misalign you, but because they weren't there or weren't you in those circumstances. The reality is, we are the best tellers of our own story. And if we don't tell our story ourselves, someone else (with limited knowledge) will. Simple logic--especially that used by the man in my first story--would suggest that second or third-party sources can typically gather enough information to paint an accurate picture of any person. But, as the scenario with my brother illustrated, sometimes, the smallest details are the ones that make the biggest difference. In the case of the man in the first story I shared, I can't help but think how different his ideas of practitioners of other faiths would be if he allowed them to speak for themselves, rather than solely asking the internet. From the world of history and personal stories, I know for a fact that our perspectives of others change when we get to learn from them, in their own words, who they are. While your spouse, children, business partners, or parents, or even Google, may be able to answer some questions about your correctly, the details that really matter can be accurately shared by you alone. Happy sharing, Kasia 

I have learned so much in my life from other cultures. Many of the lessons have come from different Polynesian nations, which I have been privileged to have worked in and around for more than fifteen years. Last week, I wrote about my experience training at a Marriott resort in Maui, when the HR instructor asked us to identify ourselves by "our" mountain, river, and people. This custom differs slightly between various Polynesian cultures and languages, but most of them have some form of it. In Tongan, for instance, it's called tauhi v ā , which refers to the nurturing of socio-spatial relationships. In practice, part of it means that when you introduce yourself to another Tongan, you do so by sharing your genealogy and kinship-ties, which help the other person understand who you are and where you come from. Sharing one's identity in this way is a telling aspect of Tongan culture, where so much of the value of one's own life comes down to family relations and genealogical ties. In the Hawaiian version, though, the practice is a little different. Unlike Tongans, who mostly don't have impressive geographical formations in their islands to boast of, Hawaiians use identifiers which are more apropos to their physical homelands. Namely, the Hawaiian archipelago has many mountains that protect, challenge, inspire, and feed their communities. For native Hawaiians, identifying your mountain for another person is sharing the literal rock that helped shape, nourish, shelter, and teach you, which, in turn, helps others to know, and understand you better. The funny thing is, this exercise also has application to personal history. Using the Hawaiian version of the practice, let's try a simple exercise: Think of where you grew up or came of age. What geographical or metaphorical mountains did you have around? What role have they played in your life? For me, the mountain I identify as "mine" is Mount Timpanogos, the second highest peak in the Wasatch mountain range of Northern Utah. Although I grew up in Idaho, I attended university in Provo, Utah, where "Mt. Timp" towers above the valley like a watchful but austere caregiver. When I first moved to the area, I was a scared, intimidated seventeen year-old kid. I had missed two years of high school (which put me behind in every subject area besides reading), and had no money, what I considered to be very little family support, and a background and past that were far different from any of the other students I could see. I felt like an imposter in my classes and that I didn't belong altogether. I questioned if I could ever really make it there or be successful. Thankfully, over the course of the next five years, those feelings gradually improved. I learned to study, to think critically, to write, and to not take others at face value. I became more confident in who I was, gained lifelong friends, and had priceless, life-altering experiences that are impressed on me forever. Truly, those five years changed my life, shaping me for a far different future than I would ever otherwise have had. All the while, Mt. Timp was there, standing as a quiet and stable witness to the growth happening in me. To me, it symbolizes a place that has now become sacred in my memory and for which I feel deeply grateful. Now it's your turn. What is your mountain? What literal or figurative precipice is important to you, and why? How would you answer these questions, and how would you place yourself in the context of the mountains you have been around? Your mountain may not actually be in your geographical area, or even anywhere near where you live. In fact, it may not be a mountain at all. Growing up in central Texas, my kids may be more likely to claim the elevated spot of highway near our home as their mountain than they will to latch on to any other real mountain they have yet met. Thus, even if it is a building or church or other figurative mountainous presence in your life, it's important because it represents a force that has shaped you and without which, you would be adrift. With all these things in mind, I'd love to know, what is your mountain? Happy mountain-naming, Kasia 

Many years ago, I had an impactful experience that has taught me ever since. As part of the onboarding process for new employees at a Hawaiian Marriott resort, I and the other members of the cohort were challenged by the HR instructors to introduce ourselves not just by our name, but by our "mountain," our "river," and our "people." At first, I was confused. I was a young, fresh college graduate, and although I had traveled a fair bit, my experience with non-Western culture was still limited. Then the HR instructors explained that in Hawaiian culture, mountains, rivers, and tribes were the three things that helped people triangulate each other's identities. The idea is that you belong not just to yourself, but to the people and places who shaped you. I love this idea. Mainstream culture would have us all feel that we are a product of our own genius. That who we are, and the success we achieve, have little to do with anyone else. The truth that this exercise drives home, however, is that (for better or worse) we are all products of the people who raised us, the places that supported us, and all the people who helped us along the way . It's a great reminder of where you have come from and the people who have invested in you. This idea can be summed up in a quote that I love: Everything worthwhile comes with the help of others. Life is a collaborate endeavor, and success--genuine success--is attributable to a lot more people than just you. -Matthew O. Richardson Taking the time to identify your mountain, your river, and your tribe is an instructive experience. Not only is it humbling to recount the impact of these things in your life, but it can also be a positive exercise to help you feel closer to the people around you. It then becomes clear that our own legacies are not so much of a single-ingredient success story, but a tapestry woven from the strands of a thousand outside contributors. Truly, there is no such thing as self-made. Happy legacy-living, Kasia

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, it's a pink and red world out there. And somehow, this week, I managed to spend several interview hours talking with clients about an especially timely (and fun) subject: their love stories. In the spirit of love in our lives, I hope you'll indulge me this week with a snapshot of my personal story. My husband and I will celebrate four years of marriage this summer, which makes this our third Valentine's Day together. When I first fell in love with him, it was all the lovey things. I wasn't planning to get married anytime soon, I wasn't even looking to seriously date at that moment. He basically came out of the blue into my life to tick all of the boxes I had learned were important through the trial-and-error of previous dating experiences. Although he wasn't what I was looking for at that time, it turned out that he was exactly who I had been looking for all along. He was my match, and as we got to know each other, there were funny things that happened, there were romantic things he did, and there were special experiences I had that confirmed to me that he was the one I wanted to marry.  All of it is something I never want to forget. Somehow, it's made even more special by the years that have succeeded those early. Perhaps no other relationship has as much of an impact on your life as the person or people you fall in love with. In my case, my husband's influence has helped me to become a more laid-back, more loving, and more loyal version of myself than I was before I knew him. His entry into my life is a watershed moment that changed my story forever. My guess is that when you go to record it, your personal story will, like mine, become at some point thoroughly comingled with the story of your love(s) and their influence in your life. The memories won't always be rose-colored, because life and love aren't only pain-free, top-of-the-mountain experiences. But always, they should be recorded, because failing to share your love story would be the omission of a significant part of who you are and the legacy you are leaving. My hope for you this week would be that you would take the time to record your love story if you haven't yet, or to write a letter to your spouse that includes some of what you love and appreciate about them. Some questions to get you started are below. Happy loving and legacy-leaving, Kasia When writing about your love story consider including answers to the following questions: How and when did you meet your spouse? What made you "click"? What favorite memories do you have of time you spent together? Do you have a shared song? If so, what is it and what is the story behind its meaning to you?

Do you ever get songs stuck in your head? I do, all the time, and this week the one that played over and over was " The Impossible Dream ," from the play The Man of La Mancha . If you've never heard the song, you're missing out. The lyrics are one man's inspiring pledge to his ideals in life--what he calls his "Quest": to live courageously, to treat others well, to act honorably, and to persist through challenges. Then, as part of the song states, he knows he will be able to feel peace and satisfaction with his life when it is over: I know if I'll only be true To this glorious quest That my heart will lie peaceful and calm When I'm laid to my rest It's funny how, unknowingly, these words became a summary of some of my work this week. I was interviewing one of our clients for his part of a history we are writing for his family. By any standard, he is a successful person--he's built or been intrinsically involved in multiple eight- and nine-figure businesses, has amassed an enviable estate, has traveled to some of the most beautiful places in the world, is in great physical shape, and has a strong, loving family. Given his experiences, I was looking forward to hearing his answer to one of my favorite questions to ask: "What is your purpose in life?" I learn a lot from working with people like him, and his answer was just as instructive as I expected. "To teach," he said. He then talked about the mentoring he has done throughout his life, with everyone from struggling young boys and college athletes (he has been both), to fathers, entrepreneurs, and others in his church, social, and work circles. As he stated, although he isn’t “finished,” he feels successful because he has been able to make a positive difference in others’ lives. As you can imagine, this was a wonderful and inspiring thing to hear. For me, it stood in sharp juxtaposition to the situation of another man whose story I worked on last year. In contrast to my current client, this first man was about 400 million dollars richer (really), but about that much more miserable. As he told his story, he had lived his life in pursuit of money and the respect and influence he felt had been denied him as a child. Now, in what is likely to be the final chapter of his life, he is about as insecure and unfulfilled as anyone I have ever met. The differences between these two men and their situations is telling. While one has lived in alignment with a higher purpose, the other focused only on himself. While one had a quest to strive for, the other had only a fight to be on top. Consequently, one experiences peace, joy, and satisfaction with his life, while the other still feels like he missed his shot at happiness. While one is wealthy and fulfilled, the other is just wealthy. Again, I think of the lyrics of the song. The truth is that money is not your most important legacy. Instead, it's having something noble to strive for that gives us a sense of purpose and direction while we are living, and a sense of peace and satisfaction when we come to the end. On the other hand, if we live only for ourselves, we ultimately flounder. For those reading this, who are conscious of their legacy, it's an important point. And I'm here to tell you that even if you feel you have missed your chance to pursue a noble quest, you have not. The reality is that no matter how you feel you have lived up to this point, there is time to adjust . While you are still on this side of the clouds, there is always the opportunity to adopt a higher purpose or to refocus yourself on the one you have . As I can tell you from the experience of working with these men and others, it will make a world of difference to your story. Happy purpose-living and legacy-leaving, Kasia

One of the things I love the most about my job is the perspective it brings. Every day, I get to sit and hear the stories of remarkable men and women who are typically further down the road of life than me. As they share their experiences, I am offered a front-row seat to invaluable life lessons that benefit me in many ways. One of those struck me this week. At this stage of my life, I am juggling what often feels like a mountain of tasks and responsibilities related to the different hats I'm currently wearing. These include: running and growing my business being the wife of another entrepreneur (my husband is a roofing professional and runs his own dirt work business) being a step-mom to two preteens (pray for us!) and mom to a little baby running our household serving at church trying to meet personal goals and just be human All of it can feel very overwhelming and like something I just have to power-through each day. But something happened last week that helped to shift that feeling for me. While interviewing a family story client about her life, I was struck by the loving and wistful way she talked about the days of having her young children at home. As the wife of a busy businessman who was often out of town for work, the bulk of caring for their young family was on her shoulders. Between kids sports and activities, family events, other commitments, and personal health challenges she faced, she often had so much going on that she could barely keep up. Added to it the funny fact that her husband was almost always away when major crises happened, the whole story is one of challenge and struggle through the rocky terrain of parenthood and life. And yet, despite the many difficulties she recounted, I was struck by how my client talked about them. Instead of sounding happy that those days are over, she talked as though she missed them. It impressed me that she considers the early years of their family--including the challenges--among the best of her life. That was an important message for me to hear. Too often these days, I am caught up in the busyness of the time, with stress from kids, work, family, and lack of sleep overwhelming me. I'm sad to admit that I generally spend a lot more time dreaming about the future (and these days being past us), than I do being grateful for the present. Thinking about this made me ask myself a question that I now pass on to you: What have been the best days of your life? If you're like me, it's difficult to pick a single period of my life as the highlight. Instead, when I think about it, I'm flooded with gratitude and joy for memories of several different times: my time in college, being a young-adult, the era of getting my PhD and traveling the world, and the time I spent dating my husband. Looking back, I seem to remember that none of those periods were without challenges (sometimes very big ones), but instead of the difficulties, my memory is dominated by the good times of those experiences. This exercise reminded me that now--today--this moment is someday going to be part of a time I consider as one of the best days of my life. Sometime soon the tiredness, the little annoyances, the stress, and the challenges of today are all going to pale in comparison to my memories of all the precious other things: the excitement of growing my business, the joy of serving new clients, the sweet snuggles of my baby and kids, and the amazing growth of working side-by-side with my husband to build our dreams. How grateful I feel for the perspective from my client's story, to help me appreciate it all more. Happy living, Kasia

Two weeks ago, I realized with a shock that I had almost overlooked a very special day.