There comes a point – somewhere between paying off the house and realising the grandkids know more about your smartphone than you ever will – when you start to think about legacy. Not the money or the will or which of the kids gets the good china, but the real stuff: the mark you leave on the world and the people in it.
This week at Starts at 60, we’re talking about just that – legacy. In partnership with iDecide, we’ve been filming a series of video interviews with Australians over 60, asking what legacy means to them. The answers are as varied and heartfelt as you’d expect: some talk about family, others about work, a few about simply being remembered kindly.
For me, it’s a question that’s become impossible to shake. My parents have been gone for more than a decade now, yet they’re still everywhere I look – and, more unnervingly, everywhere I am.
The legacy in your bones
My father was a soft, loving man – not complicated, not weighed down with hidden agendas. He believed in simple things: hard work, kindness, and the value of a good conversation about rugby league. He never raised his voice unless there was a cricket match on. When life got messy, he had a way of making it simple again – not by fixing everything, but by reminding you that it probably wasn’t the end of the world.
My mother, on the other hand, ran our lives like a finely tuned orchestra. She was organised to within an inch of her life, fiercely loyal to her family, and occasionally – well, a little cold. Not unkind, just … efficient with her emotions. Love was implied, not declared. You knew she cared because your shirts were ironed and dinner was on time, every night.
Now, years later, I see them both in me. His gentleness. Her precision. His warmth. Her stubborn streak. It’s disconcerting sometimes – to realise you’ve become a living blend of two people who no longer exist – but it’s also comforting. They’re gone, but they’re not.
The inheritance you can’t spend
I used to think legacy was about the tangible things – the house, the savings, the heirlooms nobody really wants but feels too guilty to throw out. But the older I get, the more I think the truest inheritance can’t be written into a will.
It’s the small things that live on: the way you greet a stranger, the way you handle disappointment, the sense of humour that carries you through hard times. My father’s quiet patience lives on every time I take a breath before reacting. My mother’s pragmatism surfaces whenever one of my three daughters needs someone to cut through the drama and get to the point.
Money fades. Possessions scatter. But a sense of where you come from – that’s the real legacy. It roots you when life tilts sideways.
The ghost in the mirror
Every so often, I catch my reflection and see him – my father – looking back. Same eyebrows. Same half-smile. Same soft resignation when the dog chews the post again. Other days, I hear my mother in my voice when I’m trying to organize other people’s lives.
It’s unnerving, but also strangely reassuring. It’s proof they’re still here, humming through me in gestures and expressions, in tone and timing.
And when I look at my daughters, I wonder how much of me will remain in them. Which parts will survive the sanding-down of years? Will they inherit my curiosity, my sense of humour, my tendency to overthink? Or will they just roll their eyes and tell stories about their slightly eccentric dad?
You don’t get to choose which parts of you endure. You just hope the best bits stick.
Legacy isn’t a monument – it’s a memory
Some people think legacy is about grand gestures – books written, businesses built, names engraved on plaques. That’s fine, but for most of us, legacy isn’t a monument. It’s memory.
It’s the warmth you leave in a room after you’ve gone. The phrases that live on in your children’s mouths. The moral compass you quietly install in the people you love. It’s the way they remember you when they laugh, or argue, or do something brave.
If my daughters grow up to be kind, to stand up for what they believe in, and to find joy in small things – a good cup of coffee, a sharp bit of humour, the quiet satisfaction of helping someone – then I’ll know I’ve left something worth having.
Because legacy isn’t just about how long people remember you. It’s about what they remember of you.
And if my girls ever catch themselves grumbling at the evening news, muttering something wise but slightly exasperated – the way my father once did – then I’ll take that as proof I’m still around.
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