Guided Journal Entry #4

Welcome back to Shrink Wrapped—the podcast where we overthink with flair, therapize ourselves in public, and ask the Big Existential Questions™ while probably (in my case, definitely) wearing mismatched socks. Today?… oh baby, we’re going deep.

Our guided journal prompt today?

“If you were to leave a legacy behind, what would it be? How would you want to be remembered by your loved ones—and the broader community?”

Yeah. We’re not just journaling today—we’re writing our emotional will. No pressure.

But seriously, this isn’t about designing a statue in your honor or making sure your funeral playlist slaps (though… valid). It’s about thinking beyond the grind, beyond the endless to-do lists, and asking: what am I actually leaving behind? And no, “an expertly curated meme archive” doesn’t count. Or… maybe it does. Who’s to say?

So grab your journal, summon your inner philosopher, and let’s get weird about legacy—not in a “corporate keynote speaker” kind of way, but in a “what kind of emotional glitter am I sprinkling on the world while I’m here” kind of way. Let’s get into it—before we spiral. Or as we spiral. Spiraling with purpose. 

Alright, picture this: someday, far, far into the future, you kick the cosmic bucket. Your friends and family are gathered around, swapping stories about you — some hilarious, some heart-melting, and hopefully none that involve you being the "Florida Man" of your hometown. Here’s the real kicker: what do you want them to say? How do you want to be remembered when you’re not the one steering the narrative anymore? Are you the person who made people feel seen? The rebel who shook things up? The quiet force that changed lives without needing a damn spotlight?

Today, we’re diving into a big one — your legacy. Not the "I built a tech empire and named it after myself" kind (unless, hey, shoot your shot) — but the real, everyday ways you leave fingerprints on the world. The kindness you hand out like confetti. The courage you spark in others. The space you hold when things get messy. Let's talk about the story you’re writing with your life... and what you want it to say when the last chapter closes.

Because let’s be real—no one is going to get misty-eyed at your funeral and whisper, “Wow, remember how she always replied to Slack messages within five minutes, even on weekends?” That’s not legacy, babe—that’s burnout with a wi-fi signal.

When the highlight reel of your life plays out in people’s memories, you don’t want the greatest hits to include “excelled at inbox zero” or “drove an unnecessarily massive SUV to buy oat milk.” No shade if you love a spreadsheet or a third-row seat—but let’s not pretend that’s the stuff of legend.

You want to be remembered because you showed up. Like, really showed up. The kind of person who gave genuine hugs instead of half-hearted “let’s catch up sometime” energy. The one who could roast you lovingly and still make you feel seen. The friend who brought snacks and sarcasm to the breakdown. The coworker who told the truth when it was awkward. The partner who didn’t flinch when things got messy. The human who made other humans feel a little less alone in this chaotic dumpster fire of a world.

Because life isn’t about looking polished. It’s about being present. It’s about choosing people over performance. Substance over status. Connection over clout.

So yeah, go ahead and leave behind a vibe, not a resume. Be the story that gets told because it made people feel something—not because it looked good on LinkedIn.

Because in the end? No one’s gonna remember your follower count. But they’ll sure as hell remember how you made them feel.

Preferably with a cackle, a cry, or both.

So how do you actually live this way—not just talk about it like you’re auditioning for a mindfulness retreat? It’s simple. But like most simple things (flossing, drinking enough water, saying no to things that make you want to fake your own disappearance), it’s not always easy.

Start by being kind—but not that performative, “look-at-me-being-a-good-person” kind of kind. We’re not here for virtue signaling in a reusable tote bag. I’m talking about the off-camera kindness. The no-audience-needed, “help someone with their groceries even though your arms are already full of emotional baggage” kind of kindness. The kind that isn’t transactional or curated or waiting to go viral. Just...human decency. Old school, but it still slaps.

Then, sure—share your wisdom. But please, for the love of all things caffeinated, don’t turn every interaction into an unsolicited self-help seminar. Nobody wants to be cornered by a one-person podcast with no off switch. Drop the mic and the ego. Sometimes the most impactful wisdom comes in the form of a quiet truth, a well-timed “same,” or knowing when to shut up and just hold space for someone who’s spiraling.

And finally, aim to leave people better than you found them—not in a messiah complex way, but in the “you made their day 5% less awful” kind of way. Maybe you cracked a joke that made them snort-laugh. Maybe you complimented their weird shirt and it gave them a serotonin boost for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe you just sat with them in their chaos and didn’t try to fix it. That stuff? That’s legacy fuel.

You don’t have to be flawless. You don’t have to be inspirational wallpaper. You just have to show up as your messy, compassionate, deeply human self—the kind of person whose absence would actually be felt, not just noted in a calendar invite.

That’s what sticks. Not perfection. Presence.

And probably a few wildly inappropriate jokes along the way. Because balance.

And hey—while we’re rewriting the whole “legacy” thing, let’s not act like it’s only about how you made people feel. Yes, making folks feel seen, safe, and slightly less like a raccoon in a world full of leaf blowers is chef’s kiss—but your legacy’s also about what you leave behind. Not in a dramatic, “read my will” kind of way (unless you’re secretly royalty—if so, call me), but in the actual stuff you imprint on people. In their minds. In their guts. In their group chats.

Pass down what you know. The weird wisdom. The life hacks. The hard-earned truths you picked up while face-planting through your own emotional obstacle course. Because guess what? That’s your treasure. Not your overflowing Sephora samples. Not the seventeen half-burnt candles you’re “saving for a special occasion.” Not even your meticulously curated Spotify playlists (though let’s be honest, those are solid).

Teach someone something. Anything! Teach them how to make a grilled cheese that doesn’t taste like regret. Teach them how to own their voice without sounding like they just walked out of a TEDx conference sponsored by guilt. Teach them how to offer a real apology—the kind that doesn’t start with “I’m sorry you’re upset” and end with an emotionally constipated shrug.

You don’t have to be a guru or have a MasterClass. You just have to give a damn. The things you know—those battle-tested, soul-soaked, awkwardly-earned lessons? They’re part of what keeps you around long after you’ve ghosted this mortal coil.

So yeah, your legacy isn’t your net worth. It’s your network—of people who learned a little something from you. Who heard your voice in their head when they were spiraling. Who remembered your go-to comfort meal or your weird but shockingly accurate metaphor about life being like IKEA furniture—confusing, overwhelming, but still worth trying to put together.

Leave them with that.

And maybe one good casserole recipe, just in case.

Write. It. Down. Even if it feels like you're scribbling nonsense into the void. Even if your inner critic is yelling, “Who do you think you are, Oprah’s ghostwriter?” Ignore that voice. That voice has no creative vision and probably still says “ATM machine.”

Write the stuff down anyway—the awkward stories, the hard-won lessons, the "holy shit, I survived that?" moments. Even the weird family recipes that require six sticks of butter and one unresolved childhood trauma. Because here’s the spoiler alert nobody wants to admit while they’re still alive: someday, someone’s gonna care. Deeply. Maybe it’s your kid. Maybe it’s your niece. Maybe it’s a total stranger who stumbles across your words and suddenly feels a little less alone.

And don’t just write the highlight reel. Tell the messy stories. The ones where you cried in the car, or made the wrong choice, or got rejected by someone who didn’t even deserve your energy in the first place. Those stories? They’re gold. They’re the emotional comfort food people come back to when life gets confusing and no one’s returning their texts.

You don’t need to be a Pulitzer Prize-winning author or the resident neighborhood wise elder who smells faintly of incense and passive-aggressive wisdom. You just need to be real. Be willing. Pass it on. Because what you know—the stuff you’ve lived through, laughed about, healed from, or are still healing from—is too damn valuable to die with you.

Your life isn’t just content. It’s a curriculum. Someone out there needs the syllabus.

So give us your stories. Your cringey moments. Your little victories. Your big heartbreaks. Write them, tell them, whisper them over coffee if you have to. Just don’t keep them locked away like a secret you’re too humble or too scared to share.

Because legacy isn’t just about how you’re remembered.

It’s about what you leave behind that helps someone else keep going.

Even if it's just one perfectly timed story and a killer banana bread recipe.

And since we’re already on a roll about not letting all your brilliance die quietly like a forgotten group text, let’s crank it up: Create. Something. That. Lasts.

Yeah, I said it. Make a damn thing. It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece or end up in a museum curated by people in turtlenecks who say “juxtaposition” too much. It just has to be yours.

Write a book. Start a podcast. Paint something loud and weird. Record a voice memo that future generations will find and go, “Whoa, she was unhinged in the best way.” Start a community garden. Make a playlist that vibes harder than your existential dread. Crochet a whole emotional support blanket. Open a bakery that only sells pie and unsolicited life advice. Whatever.

The point is: start something. Not because it’s going to land you a Netflix special or a blue checkmark or one of those weird hustle-culture awards shaped like a lightbulb. But because creating something is the spiritual equivalent of throwing glitter in the face of impermanence and yelling, “I WAS HERE, YOU COWARDS.”

It’s your way of flipping off the void and choosing meaning. Of saying, “Hey world, I gave a damn. I showed up. I built something out of nothing, and maybe it’s a little wonky, and maybe I glued my fingers together in the process—but it’s mine. And it matters.”

You don’t have to go viral. You don’t have to monetize it. You just have to make a ripple. Something that sticks around after you’re gone. Something that makes people feel something. Something that says, “This is what I cared about. This is what I loved. This is what I was willing to make space for.”

So go make your thing. Loudly. Badly. Beautifully. Make the thing anyway.

And if it ends up being a dog park named “Sir Barksalot Memorial Field” because your golden retriever was basically your soulmate?

That’s not just legacy.

That’s art.

And let’s be super clear: it does not have to be perfect. You are not auditioning for divine approval from the gods of Productivity and Aesthetics. You’re not curating a museum exhibit for Minimalist Scandinavian Vibes™. You’re just trying to get what’s in your brain out into the world before it evaporates into a cloud of “what ifs” and regret-fueled daydreams.

Perfection is a lie. A scam. A pyramid scheme run by anxiety and imposter syndrome in a trench coat, pretending to be “standards.” Screw that. The Pinterest-ready version of your dream can wait—right now, it just needs to exist. Badly formatted. Slightly chaotic. Beautifully human.

Because every single thing you put into the world—every awkward blog post, every half-painted canvas, every wild idea that makes your group chat say “okay but also… yes?”—adds to your ripple effect. It doesn’t have to trend. It doesn’t have to be monetized. It doesn’t have to be pinned, liked, shared, or turned into a passive income stream. It just has to be.

You are building a legacy, not a brand aesthetic.

And someday, long after you’ve dipped out of this mortal plane and are haunting your favorite overpriced coffee shop as a ghost who critiques latte art, that messy little project you started? It might be the thing that inspires someone else to try. To create. To heal. To begin.

So don’t sit around waiting for the mythical “right time” to show up like a fairy godmother in a pantsuit. That moment does not exist. It’s a bedtime story procrastination tells you so you’ll stay stuck and safe and small.

Instead? Start.

Start messy.

Start before you’re “ready.”

Start while you still have doubts, mismatched fonts, and a mild existential crisis.

Because done is better than perfect. Real is better than impressive. And starting is the only way anything ever becomes something.

Now go make your thing. Haunt us with your brilliance.

And while we’re dragging what actually matters into the spotlight—can we please stop pretending your Instagram grid is your legacy? Like, no offense to your perfectly lit matcha flat lay, but no one’s gonna be sobbing at your funeral whispering, “Her VSCO filter game was just… so consistent.”

What sticks? What actually brands itself onto people’s souls like emotional glitter? How you made them feel. Full stop.

Not your vacation photos. Not your inbox zero streak. Not even that exquisitely crafted apology text where you used just the right emoji combo to seem vulnerable but chill. No one’s chipping that into a marble slab, my dude.

But you know what they do remember?

That time you showed up for them when everything was on fire—and you brought snacks. That time you didn’t flinch when they ugly-cried about something they swore they’d never tell anyone. That time you listened without trying to fix it, or make it about you, or offer some motivational quote you stole from a coffee mug.

They remember the real you. The one who shows up when life gets messy and weird and uncomfortable. The one who doesn’t need a script or a stage. The one who just says, “I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not too much.”

That’s the stuff people carry with them. That’s the soul-deep impact. Not the polished version of you, but the raw, present, “I’m in it with you” version. The one who can’t solve everything, but refuses to disappear.

So yeah, make the art. Build the community garden. Paint the dog portrait in your hallway. But also?

Be the one who shows the hell up. Especially when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s not cute. Especially when there’s nothing to gain.

Because when the filters fade and the feed stops refreshing, that’s what sticks.

And no one ever forgets the friend who stayed when everything got real.

Show up in a way that’s actually felt—not just in a “look at me being emotionally supportive” kind of way, but in the deep down, I’m-not-going-anywhere-even-when-it’s-awkward kind of way. Anyone can toss out a “thoughts and prayers” comment like it’s emotional glitter, then vanish into the void of ghosted texts and passive Instagram likes. But you? Be the one who actually shows up. No cape. No spotlight. No need for a standing ovation. Just honest-to-God presence.

That means listening—really listening—when someone’s struggling, instead of hijacking their pain with a five-minute monologue about how you once went through something “totally similar” but slightly more dramatic. It means not sprinting to slap a motivational quote on their grief like some emotional duct tape. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is just shut up and sit down with someone in the muck, handing them a tissue and silently saying, “Yeah. This blows. But I’m here.”

Because spoiler: no one wants a life coach when their heart is breaking. They want someone who doesn’t flinch at their mess. Someone who doesn’t try to fix it or fast-forward it or spiritual-bypass the hell out of it. They want a warm body who says, “I’m here,” and actually means it—even if they don’t have a single solution, just presence and snacks and maybe a bad joke when the time is right.

That’s the legacy that matters. Not the highlight reel. Not the résumé. Not the awards collecting dust in a storage unit you stopped paying for. It’s the way people remember you being—the kind of person who made the room feel lighter just by existing, or the kind who sat with them when the weight of life made it impossible to stand.

So yeah, be that person. The one who doesn’t disappear when things get weird. The one who shows up and stays—not because it’s convenient or easy, but because it’s real.

That’s the legacy people feel in their bones. Long after the casseroles stop coming and the world moves on.

And while we’re here—yes, showing up matters. Hugely. But if you really want to be unforgettable (and not in the “oh god, remember her?” kind of way), then listen up: you’ve gotta plant your damn flag.

Stand for something. Anything. Just please, for the love of serotonin and spine, don’t live your whole life trying to be everyone’s beige emotional support acquaintance. Pick a hill you’d metaphorically—or, if the group chat gets spicy enough, dramatically—die on. Justice. Mental health. Human dignity. The healing power of memes. The fact that waffles are superior because they are literally engineered to hold syrup like nature’s crunchy little flavor pockets. Whatever lights a fire in your soul, claim it.

Because legacy? It’s not built on being “nice.” Or palatable. Or vibelessly agreeable until you basically become emotional tofu—just soaking up whatever’s around you, never rocking the boat, never speaking up in case someone, somewhere, might not “vibe with your energy.”

No. Hard pass. Legacy is built on clarity. On people knowing what you stood for—not because you said it once in a Canva graphic during Pride Month and then vanished like a ghost with a Wi-Fi signal—but because you lived it. Loudly. Consistently. In the way you loved, created, voted, gave, helped, and held space.

You don’t have to be confrontational or chronically online. You just have to stop shapeshifting into whatever version of yourself feels safest in the moment. That’s not safety. That’s erasure with a smile on it.

Be someone who can say: “This is what I care about. This is what I’ll defend. This is what matters more to me than being liked.”

Because at the end of the day, the people who make the biggest impact aren’t the ones who offended no one—they’re the ones who stood so firmly in their truth that the right people couldn’t not be moved.

So yeah. Pick your hill. Pack snacks. Bring your whole damn self.

And plant your flag like you mean it.

So how do you actually embody this stuff? It’s not rocket science, but it is real-deal, call-your-nervous-system-into-the-room kind of work. The formula? Don’t just say what you believe—be the damn proof.

It’s easy to slap a quote on your IG story or drop some buzzwords at brunch like, “I’m just really about authenticity and boundaries right now.” Cool. But it hits different when you live those values out loud—especially when it’s messy, inconvenient, or when the group chat goes silent after you speak up. That’s the test. Not when it’s easy and applause-ready, but when you could’ve just smiled, nodded, and let your spine temporarily dissolve to keep the peace.

Be the kind of person whose values are so baked in to how they move through the world that people just feel it. You don’t have to make announcements like, “Hey everyone, just FYI, I’m a good person!” (That’s usually a red flag anyway.) Instead, let it show up in how you treat the waiter, how you handle conflict, how you hold the line when your boundaries get poked like a bear in a sleeping bag. Let people experience your integrity, not just hear about it.

And yeah—brace yourself—you won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. Some people like their tea watered-down and drama-free. But you? You’re out here serving spiced chai with a side of “I’m not here to perform comfort for people who benefit from silence.”

Because lukewarm and forgettable is not the vibe. We’re not aiming for everyone’s approval—we’re building a life that means something. A life that echoes. A life that leaves stretch marks on the status quo.

So stop sanding down your edges to fit in someone else’s idea of “pleasant.” Be bold. Be felt. Be the proof.

And if someone calls you “too much”? Smile. You were never meant to be snack-sized.

And look—standing for something is badass, no doubt. You, out here planting your metaphorical flag like a one-person revolution against the tyranny of blandness? Iconic. But let’s also not pretend this is some lone-wolf, brooding-in-the-rain, Netflix-original-series energy where you dramatically save the world by yourself while staring into the middle distance.

You are not meant to lone-wolf your way through life. This isn’t a self-important indie film where you mutter profound one-liners and refuse help while your relationships burn down around you. (No offense to your inner moody protagonist, but she needs a snack and a group chat.)

Because here’s the actual truth: legacies don’t thrive in a vacuum. They don’t sprout fully formed out of your solo journaling sessions and one-person protest signs (though those do have their place—respect). They grow in the wild, unpredictable, gloriously chaotic web of human connection. That messy, magical network where people lift each other up, accidentally offend each other during game night, apologize like grown-ups, and keep showing up anyway.

So build a damn community—or pour into the one that’s already there, even if it’s small, scrappy, or borderline dysfunctional. Maybe you start something new: a grassroots movement, a sober karaoke crew, a Friday night Dungeons & Dragons game that accidentally turns into a trauma-informed found family. Or maybe you jump into a cause that’s already brewing—your local mutual aid group, a school board meeting, a neighborhood project that desperately needs someone who knows how to wrangle a Google doc.

Whatever it is—get in it. With your full, flawed, fire-hearted self. Because the real magic happens between us. In the eye-rolls and belly laughs and “ugh, fine, I’ll show up even though I’m exhausted” kind of loyalty. That’s where your legacy finds roots. That’s where it gets passed on. That’s where you stop being just a person with values and start becoming a force that changes people’s lives.

So yeah, be the spark—but don’t forget to light other torches with it. That’s how we keep the fire going.

And also? Life’s just better with a crew who’ll call you out and help you move a couch.

So how do you actually embody this? Simple: you give a damn. Like, genuinely. Not in a “let me slap a hashtag on this tragedy and move on with my latte” kind of way, but in the real-deal, sweaty, sometimes inconvenient, occasionally awkward way. You show up. With your hands, your heart, your imperfect self who maybe doesn’t have all the answers but is still willing to try.

Volunteer. Offer your time, your skills, your legendary spreadsheet talents, or your ability to bake emotional-support cookies that taste like a hug. Not because it’s résumé glitter or LinkedIn bait, but because someone’s gotta make this planet suck a little less—and spoiler: it’s not going to be a billionaire in a rocket.

Support the little guys. The local businesses. The dreamers. The people selling handmade jewelry and existential hope at farmers markets. Don’t funnel all your money into Jeff Bezos’s galaxy-sized bank account just because it’s convenient. (Like, we get it—two-day shipping is seductive. But so is giving a crap about your community.)

And whatever sets your soul on fire? Uplift that. The causes that make your blood boil in the most righteous, “I’m-not-okay-with-this-and-I-refuse-to-be-silent” kind of way. The things that remind you you’re alive. That you’re here for more than scrolling and surviving. Whether it’s racial justice, mental health access, queer rights, climate action, or the sacred crusade of getting pineapple recognized as a valid pizza topping—lean in. Amplify. Donate. March. Educate. Be loud, even if your voice shakes a little.

Because here’s the thing: nobody builds a legacy alone. You’re not a self-contained legend in a vacuum-sealed package. Your biggest impact? It’ll come from what you build with others. The collective magic. The beautiful, messy, mismatched humans who link arms and say, “Let’s make something better.” That’s where the real power is—not in polished perfection, but in community. In connection. In doing the damn thing together.

So get in there. Get involved. Get messy.

Because the future doesn’t need more lone wolves with vision boards.

It needs you—fully engaged, gloriously flawed, and giving a damn.

And if you’re sitting there thinking, “Okay cool, I’ll help build a community... just, like, one where everyone is chill, polished, and silently dying inside but says they’re ‘busy’ when asked how they’re doing”—no. Absolutely not. Return to sender. Hard pass.

You have to actually show up as yourself. Not your job interview persona. Not the watered-down, brunch-approved version of you who only admits to listening to cool bands and never cries during emotionally manipulative dog commercials. The real you. The weird hobbies, the existential dread, the “sometimes I eat cereal for dinner and question everything” version. Because guess what? That’s the version people connect with.

Live authentically—so others feel like they can too. That’s the whole game. You being fully, gloriously yourself is what gives other people permission to drop the act. To unclench. To exhale. It’s how we stop playing emotional charades and start building actual connection instead of this fake-nice performance where everyone’s pretending they’ve never ugly cried to a Taylor Swift song at 2AM.

Because nobody—and I mean nobody—is inspired by a walking, talking LinkedIn profile in a cute outfit. People don’t connect with “perfect.” They connect with real. With vulnerability. With someone who says, “Here’s who I am and no, I’m not taking a poll about it.” That’s the kind of authenticity that actually moves people. That creates safety. That builds a legacy not of applause, but of impact.

So yeah, bring your quirks. Bring your questions. Bring your “I don’t have it all figured out but I’m showing up anyway” energy. Be a full-color human in a world that keeps trying to Photoshop people into polite grayscale.

Because when you’re brave enough to be real, you make it safer for everyone else to be real, too.

And that, my friend? That’s what community is actually made of.

How do you embody this? You stop freaking shrinking. That’s it. You stop trying to fold yourself into the emotional equivalent of carry-on luggage just to make other people more comfortable. You own your story—the highlight reel, the bloopers, the full-blown “what the hell was that?” chapters. All of it. Even the parts that make you wince. Especially the parts that make you wince.

You take up space. Not because you’re yelling over everyone in a performative TED Talk voice, but because you’ve decided to just be in your body—in your truth, in your weirdness, in your enough-ness—without asking for permission first. You walk into rooms like, “Hi, yes, this is me. No edits. No filters. No trying to make you less uncomfortable with how much I exist.”

Be the kind of person who makes someone else breathe a little easier just by showing up. The kind of human who, without even trying, radiates “it’s safe to be yourself here.” Not because you said the right things or wore the right outfit or nailed your aesthetic—but because you were real. Because someone looked at you and thought, “Oh. I don’t have to fake it. I can just be.”

That’s the secret sauce. That’s the legacy. Not perfection. Not polish. Not five-year plans and curated LinkedIn updates about how busy you are. Just showing up so unapologetically yourself that it gives other people permission to finally exhale.

You want to leave a legacy? Cool. Start by living like you’re already enough. Not “once you lose ten pounds,” not “when you get your shit together,” not “after you finally answer those emails.”

Right now. As you are. Chaos gremlin, healing work-in-progress, and all.

Because you are enough. You’ve been enough. You just needed the reminder.

So take up space. Take up your space.

And if someone’s bothered by that? Politely scoot them out of your orbit.

We’re done dimming.

So, here’s where we land: Your legacy? It’s not about being the loudest voice in the room, the trendiest hot take on Twitter, or the person who finally cracked the code on keeping a succulent alive without accidentally murdering it with love and overwatering. (RIP, Kevin the Cactus.) It’s not about being flawless, impressive, or vaguely intimidating in a “they drink green juice and have their life together” kind of way.

It’s about being real. Intentional. The kind of person who leaves the world—and the people in it—a little better, a little braver, a little more themselves just because you showed up and refused to play small. That’s it. That’s the legacy.

You don’t need a 10-year vision board that includes a beach house and a book deal. You don’t need a TED Talk, a trust fund, or a bronze statue of you gazing into the distance like a philosophical sea captain. You just need to start showing up like you mean it.

Messy. Honest. All the way in.

Because here’s the deal: you’re already writing your legacy. Right now. In every conversation. Every text you send that makes someone feel seen. Every time you choose to show up even when your inner chaos goblin says, “Let’s just spiral instead.” That’s the story. That’s the ripple effect. And yes, it counts—even when you feel like you’re winging it (because, spoiler: we all are).

So grab your journal. Rip off the perfectionist filter. Get weird. Get loud. Get a little feral on the page if you need to. Dream without editing. Say the stuff you’ve been swallowing. Write the kind of legacy that makes you proud—even if no one ever gives you a trophy for it.

Because “someday” isn’t a real place. Now is where the story starts.

Might as well make it a damn good one.

So yeah. Let’s go.

It’s time to get into it.

And hey — whatever came up for you today, hold onto it. This isn’t about having all the answers or sketching out the perfect blueprint for your legacy like you’re drafting the next Marvel origin story. It’s about honoring who you already are, and who you’re still becoming. Be proud of what you put on the page — even if it’s messy, even if it’s just the first flicker of an idea.

You’re building something real. Something that matters. And honestly? That’s more than enough.

I’ll see you next time — same place, same vibe — for more digging deep, dreaming big, and maybe roasting a little existential dread along the way. Until then, keep writing your story like you mean it.

Thank you so much for pushing play on Shrink Wrapped—I’m really glad you’re here.

Don’t forget, you can keep the conversation going over on the O'Neil Counseling app. That’s where you’ll find blog posts with full text transcripts of every episode, plus a cozy little social media corner filled with like-minded humans who are also figuring it out one breakdown at a time. The link to download the app is in the show notes, or you can head to www.oneilcounseling.com and hit the “App” tab to get started.

If you’re loving the show, go ahead and do all the things the algorithm overlords adore—like, review, subscribe, and share. Send it to someone you love who might get something out of it. Or, honestly, send it to someone you can’t stand who probably needs to hear something I’ve said. Either way, let’s spread the gospel of emotional honesty.

I’ll see you back here next week, when we dive into why diagnosis matters—and no, it’s not just about labels, it’s about language, identity, and finally realizing you weren’t just “bad at life.”

Until then, keep showing up. Keep being real. And keep making the world a little less chaotic, one messy truth at a time.