If They’re Going to Forget Me, I Might as Well Remember Myself

One day, someone will skim through my life in a 300-word obituary, awkwardly mispronounce something at my funeral, and quietly wonder if the samosas were too oily. A few people will show up out of obligation. Some won’t make it because their dog got sick or a client meeting ran late. The people I loved will huddle around, say nice things, maybe even cry a little. And then they’ll go back to work, to errands, to Netflix. Not after months. Not even weeks. Sooner than I’d like to admit.

That used to sting. Now, it feels strangely freeing.

Because if everyone’s going to move on, I don’t see the point of living a life that isn’t completely, unapologetically mine.

I spent too much time trying to be the kind of person people don’t forget. Polite. Generous. Useful. I thought if I could just be enough—enough of a good friend, a good daughter, a good partner—I’d earn permanence. I thought I could elbow my way into someone’s forever just by being indispensable.

But permanence is a fantasy sold to those who fear their own irrelevance. The truth is: people forget. Even the kindest, most well-meaning ones. Their calendars refill. Their inboxes overflow. Grief fades into background noise. So if I’m going to be forgotten anyway, I’d rather not be remembered for being agreeable.

I’d rather be remembered for being alive.

So I’ve started living like the whole thing’s on borrowed time. Saying no without decorating it with justifications. Choosing silence over small talk. Leaving dinners early when the company drains me. Wearing red lipstick to a grocery run just because I feel like it. Making decisions that make sense only to me.

Not in a reckless way. In a this-is-my-one-wild-life kind of way.

I’m no longer interested in constructing a legacy that impresses people I barely know. I want to wake up excited about my own life, not rehearse a performance for someone else’s applause. Legacy has become such a loaded word, twisted into branding. These days, I’m more interested in honesty than legacy.

The most radical thing I’ve done lately is let people down—and not chase after their approval.

That’s what no one tells you: peace often looks like disappointing the wrong people.

I don’t need to be liked by everyone. I don’t need to be remembered by everyone either. But I do need to look at my own reflection and think, Yes. You told the truth with how you lived.

If I’m going to be a short story in someone else’s memory, I want to make damn sure I was the main character in my own.

And if they’re going to forget me, I might as well remember myself—completely, defiantly, and on my own terms.