Last Saturday I went to a graduation and a funeral. The sunny, cool morning began at the local arena to celebrate the 400+ students graduating and one extra special grad - my girlfriend’s nephew. Every time we have seen him lately, she spends the hour afterward talking about golden moments from his childhood. She always digs into her photo archives to show me pictures of him at 7 when his favorite things were ninja camp and spending time with her. At 17, he loves fashion, lifting weights, and he’s still a pretty big fan of his Aunt Lauren. 

During the graduation ceremony, several of his fellow classmates got on stage to reflect on the shared experiences that brought them to this moment and to offer inspiration for the future. They must have been so nervous - just 18 years old standing in front of 1,000 plus people to give a speech. If I had the opportunity to speak in front of all those people years ago, I would have passed out. I was really hoping one of them would get up there and say, “I want to thank me,” like Snoop Dogg, but no luck. 

As the students tossed their caps in the air, the families filed out to take pictures. The energy outside the stadium was full of joy, wonder, and love like everyone’s team just won a championship. 

A few hours later, we pulled up to a small, old, white building in the middle of a vast cemetery for the funeral. Cars lined every bare space along the road. As we filed into the small, dark room the grief was as palpable as the joy I experienced at the stadium just hours before. Talk about a stark contrast of beginnings, endings, and all the emotions that come with them.

In the front of the room, each of her children took their places to hear sweet stories about their Mom and heaven. My favorite was when they started the eulogy. Somberly, her nephew walked up to the podium, pulled out an LED mouthpiece, turned on his glowing teeth and said as seriously as he could, “we are gathered here to remember...” He was interrupted by fits of laughter from every row, but especially her kids. 

For the next half hour, he shared stories about her life and how she lived it well. Apparently this woman loved to wear light up teeth and used them frequently to disrupt tense moments. She also loved antique cars, drinking coffee all day, and laughter. But he omitted something that came up in every new graduate's speech. 

There were no accomplishments or accolades in this memorial. No awards or aspirations. Instead, he used the time to reflect on who she was for all of them. How she lived and loved people. Her laughter. Her hugs. 

I've often heard we only understand in hindsight and the older I get, the more I see it clearly. All those years ago when I graduated, I was obsessed with all the accomplishments and inspiration. I wanted to be something. I wanted to be known. At 40 attending this funeral, I know that all I want to be is someone others can rely on. I want to be someone for someone else. 

I do not care if anyone at my funeral mentions that I was a LinkedIn Top Voice or how many people I trained. I want people to share the stories of how I showed up. For others to nod affirming I did that for them too. I want my funeral to be full of people who know I cared about them deeply. I want everyone laughing at my funeral. 

I want to be remembered for my greatest accomplishment of all: being there for my people. Their first call when they want someone to celebrate or cry with. The one they trust to ask for help when they feel stuck. The one who they know they can rely on. My niece’s favorite person. There’s simply no better thing to achieve. No other way I want to be remembered.