Courage to Be Kind
On legacy, kindness, and a mother's wisdom — that what people remember isn't what you said or did, but how you made them feel.
There’s a question that lives quietly under most of our days, even when we don’t notice it: how will the people we passed through remember us? Not the headline things — the role, the title, the curated bio version of you — but the residue. The feeling left behind in someone else’s afternoon.
My mother told me this once, when I was young enough that the words stuck before I fully understood them. It’s not what you say or what you do — it’s how you make them feel. I’ve spent a lot of years trying to live up to that. Falling short, learning, getting up, trying again. This poem is for that — for the kindness that costs something, and the courage to keep being kind anyway.
People come and go
But how will they remember you?
Were you a friend, were you a foe?
Were you worth getting to know?
I hope I came to your rescue
Many moons ago, like a blinding reveal
I was told, it’s not what you said, or what you did
But how you made them feel
The wisdom stuck with me like a seal
Even though I was just a kid
That truth was imparted to me by my Mother
It’s been significant throughout my journey
For I want to be the light, if only for a moment’s thunder
And be that eternal rock for my star-crossed lover
I hope to those in my life that I am worthy
Because I’ve made many mistakes, and I still learn every day
Sometimes we need courage to be kind
I’ll always remember her words, even when I’m far away
Knowledge can be as beautiful as a Monet
I take a deep breath, and remind my tired mind
Knowledge is beautiful in the way a well-cut stone is beautiful — admirable, precise, impressive. Kindness is beautiful in a different way. It’s the quality that gets remembered when no one’s keeping score, the small decisions made when nothing’s at stake. The things you do because they cost you something, not because they earn you something.
I’m still learning. The poem is from a younger version of me trying to understand what my mother passed down, and from an older version still trying to live up to it. The work is to keep being the kind of person someone might be glad they crossed paths with — and to extend that same grace to yourself when you fall short.
— JTC