The Small Things That Stay

I used to believe that I didn’t have much impact on others. I wasn’t famous. I didn’t hold a powerful title. I wasn’t rich or brilliant or wildly talented. I was just someone living a life, trying to do the best I could. But over the years, a strange thing happened. People began telling me how something I said or did changed their lives. Sometimes it was something I said casually, in passing—something I didn’t even remember. “You once told me I was stronger than I thought. I’ve never forgotten it.” Or, “When you stayed by my side that day, I didn’t feel alone. You don’t know what that meant to me.” These words would surprise me. I never imagined that a small moment could be carried by someone for so long.

What I’ve realized is that our impact doesn’t always show up in fireworks or big events. Often, it’s quiet. Subtle. It lives in the words we forget but others remember. In the time we offer without keeping score. In the hugs that last a little longer than usual. My children, now adults, sometimes write me heartfelt notes, thanking me for how I helped shape their confidence or supported them when they doubted themselves. I smile and feel honored—but if I’m honest, I don’t always remember the exact moments they’re talking about. I just know I loved them fiercely.

My husband often reminds me, too. He’ll say, “When you told me we’d get through this, I believed you.” And I’ll think, Was that so important? But to him, it was. Sometimes our smallest acts carry the greatest meaning to someone else. These moments don’t always register when they happen. We just live, we show up, we offer our hearts.

In recovery, I learned a lot from the people who guided me. My sponsors were the first to show me the kind of impact words could have. They listened when I couldn’t speak. They challenged me to face my perfectionism, jealousy, fear, and self-doubt. They offered no magic answers—just presence and patience. And that changed everything. I try to do the same for others now. Sometimes I wonder if they hear me. But maybe one day, they’ll remember a phrase or moment that helped them, and that will be enough.

I’ve also learned from family. My mother and sister taught me not by lecturing but by simply living and sharing stories. Their experiences, humor, and warmth filled our home like light through windows. The older I get, the more I find myself saying things they used to say. Their love became my foundation. That’s a powerful kind of influence—one that lingers quietly, like the scent of home.

Humor has been a kind of healing. My husband and I laugh a lot, sometimes over the smallest things. When I’m having a rough day, his silly jokes or our shared memories can pull me out of it. Laughter reminds me that joy doesn’t have to be loud. It just needs to be real. You don’t have to be brilliant to bring joy to someone’s life. You just have to care.

A while ago, someone asked me, “Would you rather be brilliant and tortured, or simple and happy?” It reminded me of Vincent van Gogh and all the other geniuses whose minds burned too hot. And I thought—no contest. I’d choose peace every time. I may forget things more easily these days, thanks to age and health challenges, but I don’t miss the pressure to prove myself. I’m content to live kindly, love deeply, and be present. That’s more valuable than any trophy of intellect.

Touch, too, has taught me something about impact. I didn’t grow up with much hugging. It took me years to become comfortable with physical affection. But I practiced. I entered what I call “hug therapy,” learning to give and receive hugs with honesty. Now, I’m a hugger through and through. My friends expect it, my family appreciates it, and I’ve seen how one good hug can anchor a person in hard times.

Even during the pandemic, when touch was rare, I held on to the power of connection. A smile through a mask, a kind word on a Zoom call—it all mattered. We’re wired for connection, and even when we forget the details, we remember how people made us feel.

And maybe that’s the heart of this whole story. People will not always remember your words, your outfits, your accomplishments. But they will remember the way you made them feel. The comfort you offered when the world felt cold. The laughter you shared when they needed light. The belief you had in them when they couldn’t believe in themselves.

So today, I try to live with that in mind. I don’t need to be unforgettable. I just need to be present. Show up. Hug a little longer. Laugh a little louder. Listen a little deeper. And maybe, just maybe, something I say or do will stay with someone in the way someone else’s words stayed with me. Because in the end, it’s the small things that stay.