“We are, in the end, a measure of the love we leave behind.” - Tina Davidson
A week ago, Heart Uy passed away from a late-night fire accident at home. She was only 18 years old.
I’m spelling that out from the start because I don’t want to make it seem like I’m using her as a narrative device.
You don’t know who Heart is. And honestly, neither do I. Or, well, I thought I didn’t — until I checked her social media accounts and realized: I know this girl.
I’d seen her dance videos before. She was this little kid eating up these hard-hitting choreographies, owning the stage like it was her birthright, showing a level of skill way beyond her years. More recently, I’m sure she’s passed through my TikTok feed a few times. I just never registered her name.
Heart was part of UPeepz, one of the most prominent street dance crews in the Philippines. As a tribute to Heart, the team wrote:
Even before we had a junior team back in 2016, UPeepz was already blessed with the presence of an extraordinary dancer. At the age of 10, she embarked on this journey with us and graced our dance family with her dedication. She then paved the way for junior teams to be competitive in the international stages.
Over the span of eight remarkable years with us, she blossomed into a seasoned competitor, leader, and a senior choreographer for our team.
She was more than a talented dancer. She was our coach, our champion, a cherished teammate, and an inseparable part of our dance family.
She was a big loss to the local dance community, which is why I was surprised I hadn’t known of her. (I’m a retired dancer, but I’ve still been keeping tabs on the community over the years.)
So, out of curiosity, I followed her death.
In the days following the news of her passing, her Instagram stories — presumably accessed by someone who knew her — were inundated with posts. The account reshared posts of people paying tribute to Heart. There were videos of her dance highlights (my favorite is in the TikTok link below), sandwiched between stories retelling people’s core memories with and of her. Series of posts shared whole anecdotes. Slideshows of photos painted her quirks. There were screenshots — messages and conversations showing her uplifting, fighting spirit. The posts were intimate and detailed and heartfelt and heartbroken. Swiping through everything, I got a glimpse of who Heart was both on and off stage.
And what I saw wasn’t merely an awe-inspiring talent, but a stellar human being.
I didn’t expect the tears that streamed down my face. Like I said, I hardly knew her.
When someone dies young, and especially when it happens while the person is in their prime, it makes sense to lament for the life they could have lived. Too soon, we think. She had her whole life ahead of her.
But I realized that I found myself crying not because of the years she was robbed of, but because I was overwhelmed seeing how she conducted the ones she had.
I thought, Oh, how much life you can pack in eighteen years.
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I’ve been meaning to write this piece for a while now, way before the news about Heart. It started when I heard this line at work: “When you have no scale, you have no impact.”
I mean, it’s hard to argue with that. In this number-driven world, it’s basic math: Scale equals impact.
But it made me wonder just how much of these modern narratives we unconsciously internalize, letting them color the way we perceive our worth. At a time when it’s become possible to make a living out of being a one-man media house — with the value of your work defined by how many followers you have or how well your content sells — I think it’s worth calling out: We’re not corporations, we’re humans.
And corporate math isn’t the same as human math.
The line immediately made me think about what I’m doing at this very moment: Writing this newsletter to be sent out to a small readership, only really opened by, on average, 40% of the recipients. Yes, I have subscribers (and I love you all for being here). But at this scale, it feels pretentious to say I have an audience.
And yet, I refuse to believe I’m not making an impact just because I don’t have the numbers to show for it. I admit it sometimes (oftentimes) feels like I have to be delusional to convince myself of this. But, fortunately, all it takes is a single comment. When someone tells me that they resonated with or were moved by my work, that whole scale-impact equation doesn’t hold a candle.
I’m reminded that, ultimately, what counts, what holds weight, and what constitutes impact, is an entirely different equation.
I think this is why I was deeply moved by all those posts about Heart.
Heart was a social media star. 13,000 followers on Instagram, 23,000 on TikTok. But, seeing how people cherished her so profoundly and with such specific detail, it feels like a disservice to reduce her impact to mere figures.
When I look at Heart, I see a girl who lived a big life in the most intimate, most elemental ways. She was simply a person who took up her space, who mesmerized and rallied others with her ability to do just that. She knew she had a gift and she was generous with it. She worked hard at what she loved. She found her tribe and fully applied herself to them. From cutesy TikTok dance challenges to insane class videos, she posted all of it not to post content, but to post her enthusiasm.
Most essential of all, she was someone people could count on. Support, guidance, encouragement, joy — she gave it all freely. She was there for the people she loved. She was present. Wholly, earnestly, invaluably present.
It’s no wonder people talk about her absence so searingly.
When I think about Heart, I think about what Beyonce said about making your mark: I lived, I loved / I was here.
The word “impact” comes from the Latin word impactus, which means to “press closely into something”. What if making an impact is really as simple as that? What if it was never a matter of scale or size or scope? What if all that’s asked of us is to fully and lovingly apply ourselves to our tiny corner of the world, the way Heart did?
Let me end by sharing one more thing that Heart reminded me of.
In a podcast, Smallville actress Kristin Kreuk was asked: “If when you’re 70 or 80 years old, people say they remember you for Smallville, is that okay with you?”
Her answer:
I’d like to be remembered, or I hope that the substance of my life, isn’t measured by things that people remember me for in the general public. I’d like the substance of my life to be smaller, if that makes sense. And deeper… I want to have built meaningful relationships and made some sort of positive impact on those closest to me. I think that’s it.
On these yardsticks, I think Heart has overperformed.
FUNDRAISER: Help Heart’s family recover from a devastating fire
I always say I don't know a lot. I have so many questions and almost no answers. But I know this: Our legacy is not in numbers, but in the feelings we kindle, the way we feed people's souls, the salve with which we heal their wounds.
It gives me hope to find people who care about their impact in terms of something less tangible than numbers, and more real. And, Ria, you wrote about the topic so beautifully.
Thank you for the reminder, thank you for the hope, thank you for words I can quote!