Lisa notes

Years before my mother died, she wrote letters to each of her children. To be read after she died. I didn’t wait.

But she also left other writings behind. Last week, I finished reading the final page that I have of my mother’s journals, mostly centered in 1991. She knew her thoughts might be read one day, so she began with a disclaimer: these were simply her unfiltered thoughts, written to help her survive a difficult season.

As I turned those last few pages, I was surprised by the sadness that overcame me. Reading her thoughts had brought back a piece of her—she’s been gone since 2010—and renewed a conversation (albeit only one direction) that death had interrupted but not fully erased.

Words In Time

Because I was reading her journals, I started wondering about my own journals.

I’ve kept journals off and on my whole life. They’ve always been private—a secluded space to process life. But as I read my mother’s reflections, I couldn’t help wondering: if my own daughters read my journals one day, what story would they hear? What kind of ripples am I leaving behind?

So, I’ve decided to take a year and at least glance through my old journals, if not read them thoroughly. It’s an undertaking I may or may not get through, but here I go.

To start, I randomly pulled one from my shelf. On the first page, I saw the date: 1991.
The same year I had just finished reading about in my mother’s journals.

Two women, two generations, living side by side in time on the pages.

Same Year, Different Worlds

In 1991, my mom was struggling as a daughter herself to care for her aging father, my granddaddy, while balancing her other roles of wife, mother, and grandmother.

That same year, I was a newly single mom, caring for my toddler, and trying to figure out how to create a new life that was totally different than what I’d imagined it would be.

We were both hurting in our own worlds.

And even though we loved each other deeply and talked to each other often about many things in our lives, our private journals revealed an unspoken truth: we were protecting each other from the full weight of each other’s pain.

Me with my daughter, mother, great-grandmother, and grandfather

The Quiet Legacy of Ripples

As I read through my mom’s pages, I saw things that were both familiar and strange. I recognized the basic outline—I had known back then when she was traveling and what had been hard or easy each week—but I hadn’t known how much agony she was experiencing through the decisions she was having to make. (I would feel that same agony years later when we had to make similar decisions about her care.)

In my own pages, I’m reading things I both remember and have forgotten. Some things cause me to laugh out loud; other things make me cringe (I’ve ripped up and thrown out several pages already that I definitely don’t want my daughters to read).

Reading both journals at once is shifting the way I think about legacy.

Not the grand, headline-making kind that we often hear about—“Create your own legacy!”—but the quieter, more ordinary, and maybe more human kind.

We each create tiny ripples every day—through our words, choices, and even our silences about the heartaches and joys we share, and the ones we keep close.

Lessons from the Ripples

Here’s what I’m learning from reading both my mother’s and my own words:

• Our words matter, even the unspoken ones.
  Not all words have to be spoken—sometimes writing the words gives us power enough to uncover complex truths, things we may not verbalize, but things that make a difference nonetheless.
• We are both senders and receivers of ripples.
  My mom couldn’t have known that her scribbles from 34 years ago in 1991 would one day help me see both of us more clearly in 2025.
• Pain can be a bridge of connection.
  Even though the specifics of my mom’s struggles and my own were different, the ache running through our stories was similar and universal.
• The past voice can comfort the present self—and vice versa.
  Hearing my mom’s voice and rereading my own has shown me the progress I’ve made in some areas, but also revealed how some things remain just the same. I can be compassionate toward each of those selves.

The Work of Words

I wish I could, but I can’t go back in time and be more aware of my mother’s hardest days, or be kinder to the fragile woman I was myself in those years.

But I can honor both of them now.

I can thank them—the woman she was, and the woman she raised—for doing their best with what they knew then.

Without realizing it, we were both rippling through time—catching old waves and creating new ones. Offering grace, making memories, and spreading love in the ways we knew how.

The Ripples Continue

Whether words in a journal are ever read again or quietly fade away through time, we can trust they’ve done their work.

They’ve met their purpose—helping shape who we are, who we’re becoming, and what we’re sending out into the world.

One sentence at a time, they continue to ripple throughout time, whispering:
We were here. And we mattered.

Who has rippled the most into your life—and who do you want to ripple into? Share your thoughts in the comments.

Read more:

• Before you box up the past, ask yourself this one question first
• Letters from Mama