People come up to me as I leave the stage after a performance and

The words of Lorna Luft—“People come up to me as I leave the stage after a performance and tell me they saw my mother onstage with me every time I sing. I keep a sense of humor about it”—are filled with quiet grace, humility, and the bittersweet echo of legacy. Beneath their surface lies the universal struggle of those who walk in the shadows of greatness—the children of giants, the inheritors of names heavy with history. For Luft, daughter of the legendary Judy Garland, these words are not complaint, but revelation. They speak of the burden and blessing of lineage, and the courage it takes to claim one’s own light beneath the weight of another’s star.

When Luft speaks of her mother appearing onstage, she describes not a haunting, but a reflection. Every performance she gives carries the echo of Garland’s brilliance, a reminder that art and memory cannot be separated. The world, in seeing her, cannot help but remember the mother—the voice that once carried them through sorrow and joy. Yet Luft meets this not with resentment, but with humor. “I keep a sense of humor about it,” she says—and in that laughter lies wisdom. For humor, in her case, is not dismissal—it is survival. It is the gentlest shield against comparison, the balm that transforms a burden into blessing.

This wisdom is ancient. The philosopher Epictetus, who taught the art of inner freedom, once said: “We cannot choose our circumstances, only our response to them.” Luft cannot change the fact that she was born to a legend; she cannot silence the voices that see her mother’s shadow in her song. But she can—and does—choose how to live with it. Her humor is a kind of stoic grace, a way of turning destiny’s weight into strength. She does not fight her inheritance, nor does she hide from it; she accepts it, smiles at it, and continues to sing. That is the spirit of endurance clothed in laughter.

The origin of this sentiment stretches far beyond the world of performance. It is the same story told through generations—the child who inherits a mantle too large, who must learn to make it their own. Consider Alexander the Great, son of King Philip II of Macedon. From birth, he was destined to surpass a father already known as mighty. Yet instead of fleeing the legacy, he expanded it, taking what he had been given and reshaping it through his own genius. Lorna Luft’s journey, though in art rather than empire, is born of the same challenge: to take the inheritance of greatness and turn it into individuality, to live not in imitation, but in continuation.

When Luft says she “keeps a sense of humor,” she teaches that humor is humility made radiant. It is the acknowledgment that life is imperfect, that comparisons will always follow us, that we cannot control how others see us—but we can choose to live joyfully regardless. Her laughter is not frivolous; it is an act of wisdom. For laughter, as the ancients knew, is the music of acceptance. It is what allows us to carry our griefs lightly, our struggles gracefully. Luft’s humor, then, is not escape—it is transcendence.

And yet, her quote holds another layer—a tender reverence for her mother’s spirit. The fact that people see Judy Garland “onstage” with her is, in truth, a testament to the enduring power of love and art. In every note Luft sings, there lingers an echo of the voice that shaped her. The mother is gone, yet not gone; she lives in the daughter’s breath, in her courage to stand before the world and perform. What others perceive as resemblance is, in fact, continuity—the eternal chain through which artistry, love, and memory pass from one generation to the next.

Let this be the lesson for all who struggle beneath the shadow of legacy: accept what you inherit, but shape it with your own fire. Do not let comparison steal your joy. If others see in you the reflection of those who came before, let it be a compliment, not a chain. Meet it as Luft does—with laughter, gratitude, and quiet strength. For every life, however bound to the past, holds its own song waiting to be sung.

So remember the wisdom of Lorna Luft: when life burdens you with expectation, face it with humor; when the past walks beside you, walk with grace. Let laughter be your companion and acceptance your art. For to live under the light of another’s greatness and still shine in your own right—that is not an accident of birth, but an act of courage. And in that courage, your song, like hers, will not merely echo the past—it will become part of the eternal harmony of life itself.