Did I Do Enough?
What his last question keeps teaching me
I didn’t wake up thinking about him or that evening when I found him crying. Our last real conversation. The most meaningful one before he died. The one that makes me cry again today, three years later.
I certainly didn’t wake up thinking about his question. Instead I did what I am now trying to undo. Break what feels like an unbreakable habit.
I woke up early and spent an hour doing all the mindless things on my phone that eat away at time faster than I realize. By the time I got up to brush my teeth, I felt like shit. Not because of the one prosecco I had with friends last night but because of that hour. The one I just threw away. And that question showed up immediately behind it.
When I walked into the kitchen, he spoke to me. There are two photos of my late husband George sitting on our kitchen counter. Right next to the box of cards from his celebration of life. The ones I haven’t moved.
As I grabbed for my container of vitamins, I could hear him. And I was immediately taken back to one of our last conversations. And the sentiment that remains ingrained in my mind.
Have I done enough?
If I passed tomorrow, was my time spent wisely? Did I make an impact big enough to matter?
The family room is where we would spend hours. Watching shows. Reading books. Talking. Drinking wine. Playing fiercely competitive backgammon on the glass table between the his and hers brown swivel chairs. The ones that knew our bodies from years of imprint in the cushions.
That winter, he made one of his rare trips home.
I remember finding him there in his chair. By the fire in our family room. A glass of wine in his hand. A book set down beside him.
There were tears on his cheek.
He told me he didn’t feel like he had enough time left to do what he wanted to do for the community.
To contribute in a way that would elevate Toledo to the potential he knew was there. He loved his home town.
That was always how he moved through the world.
Not focused on himself. Focused on what could be better. And how to help people get there.
There is something I didn’t share last week in my EDIT, Somethings Don’t Get Fixed. They Get Carried
When I decided to speak at this celebration of life. In that unplanned moment. I shared that moment. That memory. His words. And when I looked around the room. I saw something he couldn’t.
A room full of people who had been changed by him.
People carrying pieces of his thinking. His generosity. His belief in what was possible.
A legacy already in motion.
One he didn’t get to measure.
There is a gap between what we think we’ve done and what we’ve actually done. It almost always runs in our favor.
And most of us live inside that gap.
Wondering if it’s enough. Wondering if it counts. Wondering if we missed something.
And all of that carries weight. Not like weight that builds strength but one that creates stress and dis-ease.
George lived there too. The man who had changed a room full of lives and wasn’t there to see a single one.
I’m standing in the same place.
The solution to the gap isn’t found in a big bold philanthropic gesture. Sometimes it’s far simpler.
For me the biggest opportunity lives deep inside my iPhone’s Settings. Apple doesn’t call it lost opportunity. They call it Screen Time. It’s a rude awakening. It’s not one I would proudly share either.
I don’t want to be that bar chart. I want to use my time more purposefully. One hour on the phone is one less hour with a friend. And that hour with a friend? It could change something.
My potential is greater than the bar chart. That’s the momentum I am working for. One habit at a time.
And so this morning, I asked myself:
How can I stand stronger?
Because if I’m honest, in the midst of my own fire, there are moments I want to shrink.
Pull the covers over my head. Disappear into a day of doomscrolling. Numb it out.
But I’ve done that before.
An hour passes, and I feel it.
Not relief. Not rest.
Just… worse.
Stuck is a heavy feeling. Shame is even heavier.
So I don’t stay there.
Instead, I write.
Fingers to the keyboard. Momentum in that simple act alone.
Then I downloaded a book I’ve read more than once. One that brings me back to myself. Daring Greatly.
I’ll listen to it on my walk today. Tomorrow. Until I finish it again.
“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…” — Theodore Roosevelt
George was in the arena his whole life. And he still wasn’t sure he’d done enough.
We all have moments that take us out. Pull us down. Convince us to stay there.
The work is to get up anyway.
He’s been asking me that question ever since. Or maybe I’ve been asking it for him.
And this morning, because of George, I’m reminded of something simple and steady:
I still have time. I am still here.
And I’m not done yet.
Always EDITing,
Leslie
George was a brilliant, caring and impactful presence. His sarcasm stated he cared! He has of his time to people others wouldn’t. And just like him, he was concerned over others versus what he could easily attain from others. I feel blessed to have known him. Thanks for eloquently sharing!
This captured GLC so well.
He was an extraordinary man - brilliant, witty, and full of life. He led at the highest levels. One thing that always stood out to me was his heart for Toledo and its people. His impact went far beyond what could ever be measured in dollars.
What strikes me most after reading this though is the question he carried - “Have I done enough?”
From what I witnessed, the answer is a resounding yes. He changed lives. He shaped thinking. He left a mark on this community that continues to be seen and felt.
Thank you for sharing this. It’s a great reminder to all of us that we’re here, we still have time, and what we do truly matters.