The Reminder We Don’t Want. My family history project.
A few weeks ago, my buddy David Schnurmann told me a story that touched a nerve with me.
One afternoon, he and his son sat down with his mom, Judy, for a casual 30-minute video chat. No production crew, no fancy gear – just a son asking questions about her life.
A year later, Judy passed away unexpectedly.
That simple recording is now the most valuable thing his family owns. It sparked what David calls The Judy Project – a movement to help people capture their loved ones’ stories before it’s too late.
When he shared this with me, it hit a nerve.
Because I’m working on something similar: a family history project to preserve my own mother’s and uncle’s memories before time quietly erases them. It’s all part of my life by design and living with meaning and intent.
My Family Project
My family’s story is remarkable and fragile. My grandmother escaped post-war East Germany with her children in 1960, slipping through the central cemetery in the middle of the night in Berlin just before the Wall went up. They arrived in Hamburg with nothing, only to lose everything again in the massive 1962 flood. My mom was still a teenager when she decided to become a nurse – mostly for the free housing.
These aren’t just dramatic anecdotes; they’re the roots of who I am. But if I don’t capture them now, they’ll vanish when the last person who lived them is gone.
That realization pushed me to start recording interviews with my mom and her brother. We talk about the late ’50s, the escape, the flood, and the small but vivid memories that shaped our family’s DNA. No scripts, no perfect lighting – just an audio recording of their voices, their laughter, and the occasional long pause while a memory surfaces.
Why It Matters
Every session feels both ordinary and profound. I set up a simple mic, hit record, and let them talk. There’s no production team, no fancy editing. Just raw, living history.
Later, I run the audio through AI transcription tools and start shaping it into a book – chapter by chapter, memory by memory. I’m careful not to embellish or fictionalize. The point is to preserve their words, not mine.
It’s a slow process, but every time I replay a story – my mom describing the fear of sneaking through Berlin, or laughing about her first nursing shift – I feel a quiet urgency. These voices won’t be here forever, but the recordings will.
The Harsh Truth
Here’s the gut punch: none of us are promised tomorrow.
Your parents, grandparents, that aunt with the legendary stories – one day they simply won’t be there to tell them.
I’ve lost count of how many friends have said, “I wish I’d recorded my dad’s voice” or “I can’t remember the exact way Mom told that story.” Once those voices are gone, so are the details: the cadence, the humor, the little side comments that bring a memory to life.
You can inherit houses, stocks, or vintage watches. But you can’t inherit a conversation that never happened. That truth is what finally shoved me from “someday I should do this” to setting up the mic and pressing record – now, while I still can.
My Own Project
That’s why I finally stopped talking about it and started doing it.
I’m sitting down – virtually and in person – with my mom and her brother to capture the stories of our family’s past.
We’re focusing on the late 1950s through the 1970s:
- My grandmother’s daring escape from Leipzig to Hamburg in 1960.
- A new life in Hamburg as the Wall went up in ’61.
- The devastating 1962 Hamburg flood that swept away everything they owned.
- My mom’s decision to become a nursing student – mostly for the free housing.
- My own earliest memories from the mid-’70s, when the world felt big and safe all at once.
I’m recording every conversation and using AI tools to transcribe and eventually shape them into a book for our family. No polished scripts. No second takes. Just their voices, their words, their laughter, their pauses – captured before time can steal them.
My Call to Action
This project isn’t about creating a bestseller – or even about future generations.
I’m not doing it for some hypothetical grandkids or to leave a neat family archive for my son.
Truth is, I don’t know if he – or anyone – will ever listen to these recordings or read the book.
I’m doing this for me.
It’s my way of holding on to the people and places that shaped me, of making sense of the messy history that led to who I am today.
Capturing these stories while I still can is selfish, in the best sense of the word.
It’s a way to honor where I come from, to wrestle with the past, and to make sure I never forget.
Closing Thoughts
If you’ve ever thought, “I should record Mom’s stories someday,” stop waiting.
Life doesn’t hand out reminders until it’s too late.
My family book project isn’t complicated: a quiet Zoom call, a voice recorder, and a few thoughtful questions. But it gives me something priceless – a way to revisit the people and moments that built me, in their own words, unfiltered and real.
I don’t know who will ever read the finished book, and that’s fine.
This isn’t about a legacy for others.
It’s about presence for me – capturing the heartbeat of a family before it fades into silence.
A special thanks to my friend David Schnurmann, whose own experience inspired me.
After recording a simple 30-minute video with his mom, she passed unexpectedly a year later.
That single recording became a cherished keepsake and led him to create The Judy Project – a movement to help others preserve their family stories.
His example is the reason I stopped waiting and hit record.