I hope they say I showed up.

Not in some clean, Hallmark-approved, résumé-polished way. I’m talking about the ugly kind of showing up. The kind where you arrive late, a little bruised, half-lost, pockets full of bad decisions and good intentions, and you stay anyway. Even when it would’ve been easier to disappear into the fog like so many others did.

I hope they say I didn’t pretend to have it all figured out. That I didn’t sell certainty when all I really had was curiosity and a stubborn refusal to shut up. That I admitted, often loudly and without apology—that I was confused, angry, hopeful, terrified, and occasionally full of shit. Because that’s the truth of it. Anyone who claims otherwise is either lying or running for office.

I hope they say I loved fiercely and imperfectly. That I loved my kids in a way that felt less like a rulebook and more like a bar fight with gravity—messy, relentless, and motivated by the simple fact that I refused to let them fall without at least trying to catch them. That I learned too late what time really costs you, but once I understood the price, I paid it forward whenever I could. Long talks. Long drives. Longer silences when words would’ve ruined the moment.

I hope they say I kept my eyes open. That I noticed things. The quiet ones especially. The man sleeping under a bridge while the city pretended he was a smudge on the lens. The way the light hits the trees right before the sun clocks out for the day. The strange holiness of standing alone in the woods with a camera, hearing nothing but your own breathing and the faint hum of something ancient that doesn’t give a damn about your schedule.

I hope they say I told the truth—even when it made people uncomfortable. Especially then. That I didn’t sand down the rough edges to make myself easier to digest. That I chose honesty over palatability and paid the social tax without whining too much about it. That I understood the world is already drowning in carefully managed lies, and the last thing it needed was another man politely nodding while everything burned.

I hope they say I created things. Stories. Photographs. Little proof-of-life artifacts that said I was here, and I saw this, and it mattered to me. Not for fame. Not for algorithms. But because forgetting is the most efficient thief we’ve ever invented, and I wanted to slow it down just enough for someone else to notice.

I hope they say I kept moving. That when things collapsed, as they always do, I didn’t stay buried under the wreckage pretending it was shelter. That I walked. Drove. Hiked. Wandered into forests and ghost towns and cold mornings with bad coffee and worse sleep because standing still felt like surrender.

And if they’re being brutally honest and I hope they are, I hope they say I was complicated. That I was hard to pin down, occasionally exhausting, deeply loyal, and allergic to bullshit. That I laughed loud, swore often, questioned everything, and believed that meaning isn’t found—it’s built, usually with dirty hands and questionable tools.

If there’s only one thing, though—one line someone mutters years from now while flipping through an old photo or remembering a half-drunk conversation at the wrong hour—I hope it’s this:

He didn’t coast.

He leaned into it. The fear. The beauty. The chaos. The love. All of it. No cruise control. No autopilot. Just a man trying to stay awake in a world that desperately wants you sedated.

And honestly?

That would be enough.