Your Lifetime And a Lifetime of Your Legacy

As a child, a lifetime, I thought, was being “old” — gray hair, wrinkles, an always-growing family, and decades of stories, triumphs, and challenges. It was great-grandchildren at your feet, unfiltered conversations and collections of photos, knick-knacks, and recipes. A lifetime was old barns with generations of tools, totes of heirloom seeds, and changing technologies. A lifetime was holding hands into your 80s and 90s, arthritic, scarred, and firm in your commitment. A lifetime was always…more time. My brother, Kyle’s, lifetime was just 19 years (100 days shy of his 20th birthday) — that’s 7,025 days or 168,600 hours to learn, grow, struggle, succeed, play, explore, laugh, cry, argue, rest, and love.

I was 14 at the time of his death, and I remember all the adults who wept at the lifetime stripped away by death — he was so young…just a kid…he had everything ahead of him. It took me years to comprehend the concept of a lifetime. To me, my brother was already an adult — a high school graduate who found love, prepared to bring a child into the world, joined the Marine Corps, and went off to war. He was a man, and not just the boy who held a key to our childhood memories and dreams.

Five siblings, all spread throughout the years, made for wild adventures and an array of lifetime dreams. The oldest, my sister, back then was mom’s right hand in wrangling the kids and keeping the peace. Kyle, five years younger, was the instigator and mastermind of mischief who always had tricks up his sleeve and a way to make you smile. We lost the next brother, born 18 months after Kyle, before I was even born to a rare birth defect; he was nearly 3 at the time. A spirited Rachel, 3 ½ years younger, next joined the fold. Our little brother, the most curious of us all — a true artist and philosopher — was born 2 ½ years later.

Like most rural Midwestern children, we spent our days outside collecting rocks, mosquito bites, and memories. Childhood was full of games and play, largely led by Kyle. He took us outside where we’d adventure in the woods, climb trees, build tunnels in the snow, and search for treasures. The amount of times my younger brother and I lost to Kyle in capture-the-flag solidified his future career in the Marine Corps in my mind. As the days of bike-riding and games in the yard began to fade, and Kyle spent more and more time with friends, I desperately wanted time to stop and speed up all at once. I dreamt of us as grown-ups, living our lives as neighbors with big families — “doing life,” but still together.

Like most big brothers, Kyle drove me absolutely crazy on a daily basis. One likely struggled to discern if we were mortal enemies or siblings, but I was so proud to be his little sister and proud of him: earning his Eagle Scout, umpiring softball and baseball games, and volunteering at church. He made people feel loved, even befriending the friendless kids. After an argument, he apologized first (even if he wasn’t in the wrong) because connection, to him, meant more than being right. Reflecting upon his lifetime, I’m struck by the lifetime of legacy he left behind. On Oct. 5, 2025, he will be gone just as long as he lived, 7,025 days.

In those 19 years, our family’s bond with Kyle has continued. We talk about him at every family gathering; consider things he might love (or loathe) today; and lead a foundation in his honor — raising money for veterans and students in our community. I’ve spent nearly nine of the last 19 years on TAPS staff, honoring and remembering my brother by providing peer-based emotional support to my fellow survivors in incredible spaces and healing in nature.

The most profound moments have been encounters with people Kyle has impacted in this lifetime, whether or not they knew him. A friend and fellow Marine, my husband served alongside Kyle. The memories he shares are nearly always ones of laughter on the beach, honesty in conversation, and genuine connection — even in war. Old friends from our small hometown reflect on a willful, passionate youngster, always ready to lend a hand or crack a joke. Relatives remember his unwavering values and commitment to ensuring children in the family always had someone to play with and a reason to smile. Fellow survivors remark on the impact of his life, leading me to this work, where I can foster a place for them to heal.

There will be more days in the lifetime of my brother’s legacy than days he was present for — a tearful reality, but motivation to live fully. My work at TAPS, serving others through healing in the outdoors, reflects both my personal ethos and my brother’s legacy. Adventuring around the country with my family in America’s wild spaces; facilitating meaningful retreats for my peers around the campfire and under the stars; and continuing to choose joy, connection, and growth each day — these are the ways I honor the lifetime my brother didn’t get to experience.

But what is a lifetime, really? If we continue to speak their names, remember they existed, and truly live our own lives in gratitude, the legacy of those we’ve lost is woven into the fabric of many lifetimes.

Kyle’s lifetime may have been just 7,025 days, but it was fully lived. The last 7,025 days may have been an entire lifetime without him, but he was always remembered. The next 7,025 days and beyond are full of endless possibilities, for if one person can leave such an impact in 7,025 days, anything is possible.

Photos: Rachel Hunsell