‘What’s your conversation with the next generation?'

I grew up in Bar Harbor, a small town on the coast of Maine in the United States, nestled on Mount Desert Island. It’s where pink granite cliffs meet the sea, the air smells of pine and salt, and the fog rolls in most mornings, just like in the movies. As a child, I moved through that world enchanted by that beauty, never questioning how the places I loved came to be. It wasn’t until I was older I realised so much of what I cherished had been gifted. Acadia National Park makes up most of the island and was my backyard. The park wasn’t government-made. It was created, piece by piece, by people who donated their land so the island’s natural beauty could be preserved for everyone, forever. The vision was community-led, grounded in care, stewardship, and a belief in legacy. The same was true for the 40 miles of carriage trails — paths I walked, biked, and cross-country skied growing up. I didn’t realise it then, but I was moving through someone else’s generosity. The Jesup Memorial Library, with its marble floors and limestone columns, where I first fell in love with books, was another gift. Someone believed every child in Bar Harbor deserved a beautiful place to read and dream. None of it was accidental. These gifts were legacy acts — quiet, enduring, deeply personal. I never met the people behind them, but they spoke to me. Their message was clear: ‘‘This is for you. This is your community. Make it count. Carry it forward. Add your own chapter.’’ Legacy giving is, at its heart, a conversation between generations. One generation says, ‘‘We loved this place. We believed in it. We believed in you’’. And then they pass the baton. Now living in Queenstown, I feel that same quiet call. This place, too, is shaped by awe — by the mountains, the lake, and the remarkable people who live here. People who give generously, not just money but time, talent, and love, and want to leave things better than they found them. That’s the magic of it. Something happens when a community begins to think not just about now, but about what comes next. That’s why I started the community foundation; to create a way for people to shape their legacies locally, intentionally, and meaningfully. Legacy giving doesn’t start with money — it starts with meaning. When I sit with donors, we don’t begin by talking about tax deductions or investments. We start with stories. Of grandparents who inspired them, values passed down, of the land they love. I ask: ‘‘What do you care about? What would you love to help thrive?’’ It might be a scholarship fund, a gift to a local charity, or a bequest in a will. But at its core, it’s always about something more profound — a desire to be part of the story that continues long after we’re gone. Because one day, someone will walk a trail you helped protect, or learn in a classroom your gift made possible, or feel supported in a moment of need, without ever knowing your name. But they’ll feel something. A quiet generosity. A message passed down — ‘‘someone thought of me before I even arrived’’. That’s the true power of legacy. It’s not a transaction, it’s a conversation. It’s trust in the future; a belief in people you’ll never meet. It’s the most hopeful, human thing we can do. You don’t have to change the whole world. You just have to care about one small corner of it, and plant something that will grow. So here’s the question I leave you with: What’s your conversation going to be with future generations? Will they feel your presence in the places you supported? Will they look around and say, “someone thought of me before I even arrived”? Because legacy is more than a gift. It’s a promise. A whisper through time. A conversation that never ends. 'Now living in Queenstown, I feel that same quiet call. This place, too, is shaped by awe — by the mountains, the lake, and the remarkable people who live here.