What’s Your Story? A Lesson in Life, Loss, and Legacy

The first words my husband, Brad, ever said to me were, “What’s your story?”

Caught off guard by this stranger’s directness, I shrugged it off with, “I don’t have a story.”

But that wasn’t true. We all have stories. At the time, though, I thought mine was too messy, too complicated. I wasn’t ready to reveal the tangled threads of my past to someone I’d just met. Back then, I believed that our stories—the deepest parts of us—were meant only for a select few.

Brad, however, didn’t see the world that way. For him, stories were bridges. He had an uncanny ability to make people feel safe enough to open up, his warm smile and attentive ears pulling them into conversations that lingered in the quiet space between discomfort and discovery. He sought out the messy, raw, and real because he understood something I didn’t: our stories are what make us human.

The Power of Stories

Brad believed that our hardest moments shape us in the most profound ways. He saw the beauty in flaws, the strength in vulnerability, and the truth in imperfection. While I was busy trying to present a polished version of myself, Brad wanted to know the real me—the unfiltered, complex person beneath the surface.

When Brad was diagnosed with stage 4 kidney cancer at 35, we both wanted to retreat into the safety of our old story—a life filled with love, travel, and hope. But Brad knew better. He understood that this new chapter, no matter how painful, deserved to be told.

Not the overly optimistic, “we’ll beat this” version we desperately wanted, but the raw truth: what it means to face mortality at 35. The fears, the priorities, and the precious moments that come when you know your time is running out.

As his body weakened, Brad couldn’t write anymore. So, he sat in his favorite leather chair, hit record on his phone, and spoke. He left behind over 60 hours of recordings—stories he hoped would one day guide others through their own journeys. Even in his final days, Brad understood the power of sharing our truths.

Carrying the Weight of a Story

Brad passed away 100 days after his diagnosis. Those recordings are a gift I treasure, but they’ll never be enough. How could they be? Now, I carry the weight of his stories—not just the milestones and memories, but the quiet moments: the inside jokes, the way he danced in the kitchen, the things that kept him awake at night.

I’ve found ways to honor Brad through what he loved most—stories. I’ve created “Books of Stories” for others who have lost loved ones, capturing memories through the voices of friends and family. These books ensure that their legacies live on, not defined by death but by life.

I’ve also discovered resources like Remembering a Life, a platform that helps grieving families preserve memories, create meaningful tributes, and find support. It reminded me that storytelling doesn’t have to be elaborate. Sometimes, it’s as simple as jotting down a memory in a journal or adding it to a “Memory Jar.”

The Legacy of Connection

Brad’s greatest gift was his ability to create connection through vulnerability. He taught me that our stories aren’t just for the end—they’re for the now. Sharing our truths allows us to live more fully, to connect deeply, and to leave behind something that truly matters.

It’s not easy to have those conversations, especially when faced with mortality. But they’re necessary. They’re healing. As Brad often said, “We’re all terminal.” That truth, as difficult as it is to accept, is what makes these moments of honesty so important.

Margaret Atwood once wrote, “In the end, we all become stories.” Brad understood that better than anyone. His story lives on, not just in the memories he recorded, but in the love he shared, the connections he built, and the courage he inspired in others to tell their own stories.

Your Story Matters

So, what’s your story? Don’t wait for the perfect moment to share it. Have the hard conversations. Embrace the messy, imperfect, beautiful parts of life. And when you ask someone, “What’s your story?” be ready to truly listen. Because in the end, our stories are the threads that weave us together—and they’re what will remain long after we’re gone.

P.S. Written by Dana Frost.