The other night I watched a video of a man who had two weeks left to live—a successful lawyer who had finally reached the pinnacle of his career, having just recently been chosen as senior partner of his firm. Yet there he sat at the edge of his bed, tubes in his nose, full of sorrow and regret, confessing that the title he had once worshiped now felt hollow. The wealth, prestige, and status he had accumulated seemed totally irrelevant. He had spent his entire adult life climbing, competing, proving—only to arrive at the summit and realize there was nothing there. His greatest regret was that he had never truly lived, having sacrificed his family and rarely spending time with his wife and daughter.

I turned off the screen and sat for a while. His despair and anguish were palpable, poignant, and heartbreaking, and I felt deep sadness and sympathy for him. At the same time, I felt a strange calmness, an inner peace almost. I have spent over a decade excavating my past, gathering the fragments of memory and pain, and shaping them into something coherent and meaningful: a legacy memoir born of truth-telling, self-discovery, and healing. In completing it, I feel as though I have traced the arc not only of my own journey but also of my ancestors'—their disconnection, emotional pain, and scars that never healed.

Through writing, I have done what generations before me could not: I have named their unspoken grief, turned shame and stigma into language, and chosen to stop passing it down. That, to me, is legacy and a healing that ripples across time. My work may never make me famous, but it may help someone feel seen, less alone, more understood.

So when I think, If I were to die tomorrow, would I have regrets? the answer is a clear no. Because I have loved and lived fully, and gave it all I had to make my life experiences useful for others. I have created something that can outlast me and, more importantly, bring light where once there was darkness. That is enough for me to be able to say I have no regrets.