I recently came across an idea called the three deaths.

I didn’t remember it exactly right at first. In my head, one of the deaths had something to do with the last person who remembered your face dying.

Close — but not quite.

The idea is this:

The first death happens when your body stops functioning.

The second happens when your body is buried or otherwise returned to the earth.

And the third?

The third death happens sometime far into the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.

That one stopped me.

Because I realized something about myself that I think I’ve known for a very long time:

I want to be remembered.

More than I want to be loved.

More than I want to be cherished.

Hell, maybe even more than I want to be liked.

I just want to be remembered.

That sounds different to me than wanting to be famous.

Fame is about being known by a lot of people.

Being remembered is about leaving something behind in another human being.

Maybe someone remembers something I said.

Maybe they tell one of my stories.

Maybe something I wrote makes its way to somebody I’ve never met.

Maybe a grandchild tells a story that begins, “My grandma used to…”

Maybe somebody laughs and says, “Kim would have loved this.”

Maybe years from now someone finds a video, a blog post, a photograph, a ridiculous idea I tried, or something I made with my own two hands.

And for just a moment, there I am.

Not physically.

But present.

I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking about what it means to live a life that belongs to me. I’ve changed directions. I’ve started things. I’ve stopped things. I’ve succeeded, screwed up, learned, laughed, cried, traveled, created, questioned and started over more times than I could possibly count.

Maybe part of the reason I keep writing and creating isn’t simply because I have something to say.

Maybe I’m leaving breadcrumbs.

Little pieces that say:

I was here.

I thought about things.

I asked questions.

I made things.

I loved people.

I irritated some people.

I changed my mind.

I tried again.

I lived.

And someday my body will stop.

Someday whatever remains of it will return to the earth.

Those first two deaths don’t bother me much.

But that third one?

The day my name is spoken for the very last time?

I’d like to make that one work pretty damn hard to catch me.

FACE IT !!! You’re Human.

Every breath is another chance and another choice.

And maybe every choice leaves behind a tiny piece of evidence that you were here.