If I could have something named after me, I think I’d want it to be a safe space.
Not a building, necessarily—though I do love the drama of a beautifully designed structure with my name carved in stone—but more like a concept. A feeling. A space people step into and instantly feel seen, softened, and stronger.
Maybe it’s a room in a women’s center. Maybe it’s an annual award given to someone who chose compassion over competition. Maybe it’s a scholarship for someone who thought their glow-up was impossible—but applied anyway. Maybe it’s the name of a moment. The “Dorey Moment,” when someone looks in the mirror, after everything they’ve been through, and finally says: “I’m proud of who I’ve become.”
Because after all the caregiving, the rebuilding, the heartbreaks and the hard pivots… the thing I’d want named after me would carry hope in its hands.
And yes—after all that meaning and metaphor, I fully support a signature latte or skincare line being named after me too. (Might I suggest The Dorey Glow™ Latte and From Fear to Fierce™ Face Oil? Because why shouldn’t my legacy hydrate and illuminate?) Books, bundles, and maybe even a guided journal that helps you reclaim your softness without losing your fire. Something equal parts velvet robe and war paint.
Legacy should feel like home—with a little shimmer.
But the heart of it? I’d want the thing named after me to remind people that grace is powerful. And that survival is a kind of legacy all its own.
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Some people name buildings. Some name streets. But the strongest names live in the way someone’s words stay in your head during a hard day.
Reading this felt like finding your own handwriting on the back of a grocery list—it’s small, but it says, “I was here.”
Legacy isn’t a big sign. It’s more like a favorite chair that holds your shape even after you’re gone.
You showed how naming something after yourself isn’t about pride. It’s about planting a tiny flag where your kindness once stood.