I’ve been thinking about legacy in two tenses: past and present.
In the past tense, legacy is what we leave behind. It’s the spirit and memory of who we were after we’re gone. The stories people tell. The imprint we made.
But the present tense feels more urgent.
Present-tense legacy is what we’re carrying forward right now. It’s how we show up when the work is hard. It’s how people experience us in this moment. It’s the courage to own our narrative while we’re still living it.
This issue of Amplify holds both.
While preparing a women’s history pop-up exhibit for the Catfish Row Museum several years ago, I spent time digging into the story of Madam C.J. Walker, one of many inspiring women who have called Vicksburg home. Walker’s story is often told in milestones and firsts. But what stayed with me was something even bigger. She built infrastructure. She created opportunities for other women to earn, to lead and to imagine more. Her legacy may sit in the past tense, but its impact is still building new legacies in the present.
That’s the power of a story owned.
Nearly 15 years ago, Sirobè Carstafhnur and I crossed paths when she was working as an architect at the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. She needed T-shirts printed for her fantasy football league, the Stiletto Stompers, so a mutual friend connected us. At the time, I was a new mom with a growing side hustle, trying to see whether printing and selling T-shirts could become something sustainable. That small job turned into a 10-year run operating Front Porch Fodder. Sirobè might have been my first client.
Neither of us knew what we were building then.
Today, she’s building something entirely different: a skin care brand rooted in intention and wellness. Her legacy is still unfolding. It’s active. It’s present tense. And like Walker’s, it’s grounded in the belief that ownership matters.
That connection between past and present keeps stirring something in me.
Legacy isn’t just what we leave behind. It’s what we’re brave enough to carry forward, especially when seasons change.
I’ve learned that legacy is often tested in those seasons.
Sometimes the change is external. Sometimes it’s internal. Sometimes it comes in the form of growth you wished for but didn’t fully anticipate. Sometimes it arrives as a reminder that titles, roles and recognition aren’t the truest measures of what you’ve built.
Legacy isn’t a line on a business card.
It’s how the work grows because you were part of it.
It’s the systems you built when no one was watching. The people you encouraged. The culture you helped shape. The steadiness you carried into rooms that weren’t always steady themselves.
Those things don’t disappear when circumstances shift. They travel with you.
One of my favorite thinkers on courage, Brené Brown, writes,
“When we deny our stories, they define us. When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending.”
Brené Brown
That line has been echoing in my mind lately. Because as Amplify and The ’Sip Collective continue to grow, I’m becoming more intentional about how I lead them. For years, I lived in the details, building processes, developing teams and making sure every piece moved forward. I still care deeply about that work. But I’m also learning that leadership evolves.
Part of my present-tense legacy is recognizing where I’m most needed.
I’m most needed at home with my family, in my work with Blue Engine and in shaping the long-term vision of these platforms rather than staying in the daily details. Stepping back from some responsibilities isn’t stepping away from the dream. It’s a way of protecting it and ensuring it can grow in ways I couldn’t have imagined alone.
It requires trust. It requires humility. It requires accepting that leadership isn’t about proving your value through constant presence, but about building something resilient enough to thrive beyond you.
And in a world that feels increasingly divided, increasingly loud and increasingly quick to define people before they can define themselves, building and living a legacy rooted in truth, empathy and amplification feels more essential than ever.
For me, that means continuing to create space for stories that matter. Stories that remind us who we are. Stories that challenge us to be better. Stories that endure.
Madam C.J. Walker’s legacy is alive in the women who are building today. Sirobè’s is still being written. Mine is, too.
Legacy isn’t reserved for the end of the story. It’s written in how we persevere, how we pivot, how we treat people and how we choose to see ourselves when circumstances try to define us.
So I’ll leave you with the question I’ve been asking myself:
What is the legacy you’re living right now?
Cheers, y’all!