Defined By Love

I don’t want to be remembered for my pain. I don’t want my story to be written in the ink of my struggles, as though the scars on my heart are the only proof that I existed. I don’t want my name to be whispered only in the context of suffering, nor do I want my reflection to be a mosaic of everything that has ever broken me.

I refuse to let my life be reduced to loss, to heartbreak, to battles I have fought just to keep going. I refuse to be a monument of survival, standing tall but hollow, admired for endurance rather than for the beauty I saw in the world.

I want to be remembered for my love.

I want people to recall the way my eyes lit up when I talked about blue water—how I could spend hours watching the ocean, mesmerized by the way it stretched into infinity, shifting from sapphire to turquoise to deep midnight blue. I want to be known for my fascination with the way water moves, as though it holds the secrets of the universe. The ocean has always been my solace, its tides a language my soul understands, its waves a lullaby to my restless mind.

Let me be remembered for my love of the color blue. The shade of serenity, the hue of quiet strength. The color that reminds me of sky-kissed mornings, of the deep velvet expanse of the night, of the softness of dreams just before waking. Blue is the color of my soul, woven into the fabric of my being. It is the color of comfort, the shade that holds me when nothing else makes sense.

I want to be known for the way I loved my mother. For the way I cherished the sound of her voice, the way I traced the lines on her hands, memorizing the stories they carried. My love for her is eternal, stitched into the very core of my existence. She is the warmth in my coldest days, the steady presence in a world that often feels too uncertain. If I am to be defined by love, let it be by the boundless love I have for her.

And butterflies. Let them flutter in the memories of me. Let me be remembered for the way I adored their delicate wings, for how I marveled at their transformation, their journey from struggle to flight. Butterflies are proof that beauty can be born from pain, that change is not the end but a new beginning. I have always felt a kinship with them, with their quiet resilience, their graceful emergence into something breathtaking.

Let coffee be part of my story. The scent of roasted coffee beans curling through the air, the comfort of a warm cup cradled between my hands, the quiet ritual of the first sip in the morning. Coffee has been my silent companion, present in my happiest moments and my loneliest nights. It has been the thread connecting conversations, the pause in a busy day, the steady rhythm of my existence.

And the late-night conversations—the ones that stretched into dawn, unraveling secrets, peeling back layers, forging connections that felt infinite. Let me be remembered for the way I lost myself in those hours, when the world was quiet and hearts spoke freely. The best conversations happen when the stars are watching, when honesty feels lighter in the dark. Those moments, those whispers of truth and laughter and understanding, are the ones I hold closest.

I don’t want my existence to be measured by the things I have endured. I don’t want my legacy to be a list of battles fought and wounds healed. I want to be known for the things that set my soul on fire, for the passions that made my heart race, for the simple joys that brought me to life.

Let me be remembered for my love of words. The ones I wrote, the ones I spoke, the ones I held close to my heart because they meant something to me. I want to be defined by the poetry that lived within me, by the stories I devoured, by the sentences that shaped my soul. Words have always been my refuge, my way of making sense of the world. If anything, let my words be the echoes I leave behind.

Let my love of music be part of the way I am known. For the songs that became pieces of my heart, for the melodies that made my chest ache in the most beautiful way, for the lyrics that held me when I had no words of my own. Music has always been my sanctuary, the language of my emotions when speech failed me. I want people to think of me and remember the way I believed in the magic of a perfect song.

I want to be known for the love I gave, not just the love I lost. I want my kindness to be remembered, the way I cared deeply even when it hurt, the way I showed up for people even when I was breaking inside. Let me be defined by my tenderness, by my belief in second chances, by the way I chose love over bitterness, hope over despair.

Let my name be synonymous with wonder. With the way I closed my eyes to feel the sun on my skin, with the way I traced constellations in the night sky, with the way I collected small moments of happiness as though they were rare gems. Let me be remembered for my love of the ordinary—for the scent of rain on warm pavement, for the laughter of a child, for the feeling of holding a book I had longed to read.

I don’t want to be a story of survival alone. I don’t want my tale to be one of merely enduring. I want my life to be a narrative of passion, of curiosity, of love so fierce it left a mark on the world.

Let me be remembered not for the weight I carried, but for the light I found despite it. Let me be someone who embraced life with open arms, who believed that even in sadness, there was something worth holding onto. Let my story be one of depth, of dreaming endlessly, of existing in a way that left warmth behind.

I want to look back and know that I chose to live fully. That I sought beauty even in the mundane, that I remained soft even when the world tried to make me hard. That I let love guide me, always.

If I am to be remembered for anything, let it be for the way I kept my heart open despite everything. Let my legacy be love.

I am the books I have read, the music that has moved me, the art that has captivated me. I am the sunsets I have admired, the ocean I have stood before in reverence, the night skies I have lost myself in. I am the conversations that stretched until morning, the coffee cups that warmed my hands, the butterfly wings that reminded me to keep going.

Let these be the things that shape me, that define me. Let them be my story, my imprint on the world. For in the end, I don’t want to be a collection of scars. I want to be a masterpiece of love.

Neta.