I’m one of billions – I’m not special, or particularly interesting. I’m okay at a few things, but I’m not particularly great at anything. I won’t be remembered for long after I die.

I don’t need things or people named after me. I don’t want a legacy. The experience of being alive is enough. It’s so huge, I don’t know how to hold it without feeling overwhelmed.

But –

I do know that when it eventually ends for me, I can say:

I was here. I was conscious. I never stopped changing. I loved and hated my past selves in equal measure.

I experienced extreme privilege in a world where privilege is scarce.

I felt pain, illness, health, joy, ecstasy, terror, heartache, desperation, hope, hopelessness, connection.

I took on the suffering of strangers, loved ones, animals – in private, curled up and crying. Wanting to end it, for me and for them. Never figuring out how. Feeling powerless.

I watched people I love fulfill their dreams, silently cheering them on from the other side of a screen; not knowing how to tell them how badly I wanted them to be happy.

I briefly experienced pure consciousness.

I looked into the eyes of other living things, astonished to see myself, in another form, looking back.

I saw and did things beyond my wildest dreams.

I tried to find balance, but found joy in the process.

I found (and left) a place that felt like home to be closer to people that are home.

I failed at showing the people I loved just how much I loved them, but I tried. I really did try.

I was here. (What a gift.)