My dad was born in 1920 in Oklahoma City. Navy veteran — cooked on the ship during the war. By the time I came along, he was already 52. He didn't talk about a lot of what he went through. He didn't talk about friends he lost during the war. He didn't talk about growing up in the 1930s and 40s — the day-to-day of what that was like for a Black man in Oklahoma before civil rights. He didn't talk about the negative parts at all. He'd mention how things were "really different," then just move on. He'd rather watch Gunsmoke or a John Wayne movie and have his peace and quiet.
A woman who grew up with him once told me about how they combined the schools in OKC and how traumatic that was. But Dad never brought that up himself. His generation carried all of that — segregation, the war, everything on the other side of civil rights — and most of them just kept moving.
None of that felt significant at the time. It was just dinner table talk, living room conversation, Dad being Dad. My generation might be the last to actually know someone who was there for all of it. And we didn't think to ask the right questions while we still could.
My daughter never got to hear any of it. What if she could? What if my grandchildren could hear his voice, even just once? That's where this started.
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The Pain Point
People start businesses for different reasons. Some chase profit. Some chase the moment — whatever's hot right now. Some know they can make a difference and go after that. And some chase a pain point, something personal that won't let them go. I chased a combination of the last two — making a difference and reducing other people's pain, based on my own.
In 1995, August, I went down to Dallas from Oklahoma City — just a quick getaway, nothing special. But I didn't check in. I didn't let my mom know I made it okay. The first voicemail was her chastising me: "Hey, you didn't leave me a message. You should call me and let me know when you're okay. You know better than that." She wasn't happy, and you could hear it. Then there were several more from my older sister Gwenetta, one after another, looking for me. They were worried. I don't know why I was so out of pocket, but they were looking.
My mom died a few days later. That voicemail — her fussing at me for not checking in — became the last real thing I had of her voice.
Years later, I lost the old mini cassette from the answering machine. The one with my mom on it. The one with Gwenetta telling me I needed to call because mom's going to the hospital. Gone. And then Gwenetta — she's gone now too.
So think about that. I lost my mother. I had her voice on a tape. Then I lost the tape. Then I lost my sister, who was also on that tape. Each one made the last one worse.
After losing that tape, I kept thinking about all the moments on it that had nothing to do with that day. There were so many happy times on there too — just everyday stuff. I wished I could replay them like an old VHS tape, but back then that kind of thing was expensive, and I didn't know how to make it happen. At that time, I just wanted it for me.
By '96 I was learning to build computers, by '99 I was doing real IT work. The regret and the technology eventually met. What if there was a better way? What if nobody had to lose what I lost?
But I didn't want to build something that was all about death. It could be for celebrations, weddings, childbirth, tracking the kids as they grow. The loss is what started it, but the everyday moments are what keep it going.
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What Do You Build?
So I had this regret, and I had the technology. The question was: what do you actually build?
Do you rebuild a photo album? Build another cloud folder and call it done? Do you let people add audio to their photos — let a picture actually have a thousand words? What if multiple people could tell their version of the same moment? What if the context mattered more than the file?
And what about trust? If someone gives you their most valuable memories, what happens when you lose one? Do you refund them? Two hundred percent? Three hundred? Does that even matter — can you put a price on a memory that's gone? If we lose what you trusted us with, we should feel it. Not just you.
We're still answering those questions. I'll share more about what we landed on soon. But first — let me tell you what keeps this going.
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What Keeps It Going
What motivates me is the pain of my own moment. Something personal, something close to heart. I don't think you can let go of it, especially when you've told yourself there has to be a better way. Loss and legacy is one major layer of this project — but it's not where the project stops. The same system that preserves what you've lost can celebrate what you have right now. I would love for this to be a place where what we push is preservation of the moment — the now, today — and then trickle out these clues about loss and legacy later. The loss is what started it. The everyday is what keeps it going.
And that's where it gets interesting. Because the best time to capture something isn't when you're grieving — it's when you're happy. It's the birthday party, the graduation, the random Tuesday when your kid says something that floors you. Those are the moments worth holding onto. And most people share them once — a post, a story, maybe a text to the family group chat — and then they're gone.
What if instead of just sharing for today, you could leave a trail for later? A message recorded now that reaches someone at the right time — maybe years from now. That's what we call delayed messages. You record something for your kid's 18th birthday when they're five, and the system holds onto it until the time comes. You capture a thought on a Tuesday afternoon and schedule it for an anniversary you might not be around for.
Because later isn't always what we expect. We don't just lose people — we lose abilities, we lose memories, we lose the clarity to say what we meant to say. Delayed messages are about leaving breadcrumbs while you still can. Not for the worst case, but for any case.
A guy once told me he had letters written for when he was gone, with people's names on them. That stuck with me. It wasn't long after my mom had passed. What would it be like to deliver something like that — but with your voice, not just your handwriting?
And then there's the memorial side. You need to know when somebody's gone, because that opens another layer. "Don't deliver these until my memorial is triggered. Don't open my vault until then." That's the hardest part to build, but it might be the most important.
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Start Now
Start somewhere simple. Open your phone and scroll to the most recent photo. Not the screenshot or the meme — a real one. Maybe it's from this weekend. Maybe it's your kid doing something ridiculous at breakfast.
Now ask yourself a few questions. Who else was in the room? What were they laughing about? What happened right before you took it? What happened right after? Could someone tell that story twenty years from now without you?
If the answer is no, that's where you start. Record yourself telling it. Three minutes, maybe less. Don't rehearse it. Don't wait for the right moment. The right moment was probably last Tuesday, and it's already gone.
Then think about your family. What if your mom has photos you've never seen? What if your uncle remembers that same day completely differently? What if your grandparents have stories they've never told anyone — not because they didn't want to, but because nobody ever asked? Don't let those be lost. We're building an interview tool that helps you ask the right questions — the ones that pull out the stories people didn't know they were carrying. The ones that build a legacy without anyone feeling like they're building a legacy.
And don't overthink the starting point. Ten gigs holds somewhere around two to three thousand photos. You probably have that on your phone right now. It's better to start now and filter later than to wait for the perfect moment and end up with nothing to filter at all.
You don't need to digitize every album in the attic this weekend. You just need to start before the cassette gets lost. Before the voicemail gets taped over. Before the person who remembers isn't around to tell it anymore.
That's why we built this. Not because we figured out some clever technology. Because I lost something that didn't have to be lost, and I don't want that for anyone else.
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