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To read or not to read? How to handle a deceased family member’s personal letters
Discovering a stack of handwritten letters can feel like winning the family history lottery—but is it always the right thing to read (or share) them?
I have created wonderful heirloom books filled with letters that help tell the story of a family. Sometimes, though, we may not feel so comfortable reading our deceased loved ones’ personal reflections. Before you include their letters in your book, reflect on how they’d feel about it—then, make an informed, thoughtful decision.
My parents divorced when I was a child, and I do not have a relationship with my father. But I was close to my mother until her death. She shared a great deal with me, and we spoke openly about our feelings. When I was sorting her estate I came upon things I was excited to find: letters from me that she had saved, a memory-keeping journal where a handful of questions were answered in her pristine penmanship (how I wish she had written more in those pages!), a scrapbook of her youth that she had made in her fifties. I reproduced some things, including favorite handwritten recipes and letters between us, in a tribute book I wrote in her honor about a year after she died. I did not, however, include any of the letters sent between her and her newlywed husband when he was stationed in Korea.
If my mother were alive and we had discovered those saved letters together, I have no doubt she would have shared details with me. She would have told me why she saved them even after a bitter divorce. She would have talked about young love and her dreams and she would have answered any questions I had.
But my mother was no longer here to answer questions or to provide context. At first I was excited to unearth that correspondence; then, as now, I would cherish anything that connected me to my mom. I opened the top letter and began reading. The letter was intimate. It wasn’t sexual, but it was clearly intended for my mother’s eyes only. I refolded the letter, put it back in its envelope, and chose not to read any further. It felt like an invasion of her privacy, and I wanted to respect that.
Was I bound by some moral code not to read my mother’s letters? I don’t think so. To me, it just felt wrong. So I followed my gut.
Indeed, most genealogists regard letters as valuable family artifacts to be mined for family history information and stories. As genealogist Denise May Lovesick writes in her piece “Ethics, Etiquette and Old Family Letters,” “to reject reading old letters on the basis of ‘personal privacy’ seems counter-productive.”
In an online exchange about the ethics of reading letters of a deceased person, questions arise: Can the dead be rights-holders, morally? Is it an invasion of privacy to read letters not intended for you? Does the deceased have a right to have their memory protected? As one contributor shares, “the damage caused to that person is zero (he's dead), while everybody will benefit from the historical knowledge.”
Is it always okay to read (and share) letters from our deceased family?
So while it may not be morally or ethically wrong to read your ancestors’ letters (I have created quite a few books of family correspondence that are treasured parts of those families’ legacies!), if you have reservations, consider these questions:
What is giving you pause?
You may be worried that the letters will reveal a side of your family member you knew nothing about; that may be the case, and you should prepare yourself for that inevitability should you decide to read them. Perhaps you feel like you would be invading their privacy; if you have conviction that if they were alive, they would not want you to read the letters, then it may be prudent to respect those wishes, surmised though they may be.
Are you reluctant to read the letters, to share them, or both?
Remember that there is a difference between you or another loved one reading your parents’ letters, versus digitizing and printing them for a wider audience. You cannot decide whether to share a personal correspondence until you read it, and then you will need to make an informed decision: Will reproducing the letters (in a family history book, for instance) provide insight or historical context without maligning the letter-writer? Then you may want to share them. Will reproducing the letters reveal sensitive information that might hurt someone else, living or deceased? Then you may want to reconsider.
How would you want someone to act if the letters were your own?
Imagine you have a stash of letters hidden in your closet—they are meaningful to you, but private. You have saved them, and hidden them, for reasons known only to you. If a family member were to discover them after you died, would you want them to read them? Such consideration may help you make a mindful decision.
There is no black-and-white answer to the question, Should I read my deceased loved one’s personal letters? It is not morally wrong to read them, nor is it necessarily an invasion of their privacy. But there may be good reasons your gut tells you not to read them—and if that is the case, I hope these reflections will help you come to an answer that is right for you.
If you have a collection of letters that you feel tells an important part of your family history and would like help building an heirloom book around them, please reach out to discuss how we could work together.
“It was more for me than anyone else—what a surprise”
You may think you are writing about your life for your family—to honor your ancestors, to give a gift to your descendants. But the truth is deeper. You’ll see.
Have you ever considered that writing about your life might be as much a gift for yourself as for your family?
Last week I met with a client with whom I have worked for almost two years. She first came to me having endeavored to write her life story. After writing a few short chapters, she was having difficulty staying on track and writing in a way she hoped would be engaging for her grandchildren. I worked first as her memoir coach, then as her editor, and now we have seen her stories all the way through production—on that day last week, we were reviewing the final draft of her beautifully designed book one last time before sending it off to be printed.
The previous time we met, to go over her first draft proof, my client expressed doubts. She was feeling ambivalent about having told her story at all. Would her grandchildren ever care? Would her grown sons even want to read it? What if she offended someone? Was the effort narcissistic?
That wasn’t the first time I had heard her express reluctance around the telling of her stories. As her memoir coach I did more than provide writing assignments and feedback; I was also a sounding board for how she should frame her stories, yes, but also for the reservations that cropped up during the process. And you know what? I had been there before. So many of my clients experience this rollercoaster of emotions around writing their life.
Each time this client and I had a talk about the value—or perceived lack of value—around writing her stories, we would circle back to her initial goals: wanting to tell the stories of her life both to create a legacy around her parents’ fortitude and resilience during the Holocaust years and beyond (to honor her ancestors), and to provide touchstones for her grandchildren, who might one day find wisdom in her own lived experience (a gift to her descendants). She always resumed her writing with renewed vigor. She had tapped into both the gravity and the joy of writing about one’s life.
During this particular meeting, though, my client became aware of something I had known all along: That examining and writing about her life was as much a gift to herself as to her family. She smiled at me and grasped my hand across the table: “Do you know what?” she whispered. “All of this, it was more for me than anyone else.” I sat quietly, smiling at her revelation. “What a surprise that was for me!” she added.
And here’s the thing: I can repeat this over and over when talking to a prospective client; I can write about it till the cows come home, as they say. But no one really gets it (or believes me) when I tell them that writing about their life is a gift they can give to themselves. That it is healing. Revelatory. Fulfilling.
So together we focus on the other why’s—honoring those who came before, and sharing with those who come after. We create legacy and family history and write FOR our loved ones.
And then, almost always, a surprise…that the process was worthwhile even if it was just for THEM.
Related reading
Are you ever intentional about your memories?
We all get a happy feeling when a “memory” pops up on a social feed on our phone. Just remember that you have access to ALL your memories ANY time you want!
Are you ever intentional about your memories? I don't mean doing something to preserve them (yes, I talk a lot about that, I know!), but simply visiting with them?
The easiest way may be to open an old photo album to a random page and allow yourself to be transported back in time. I find it's often easiest to do this when we are thinking about someone we love—our child(ren), our parents, our significant others, our dear friends. Why not visit some of your own (singular) memories, too? Does a picture of toddler you jumping into a pool bring back feelings of freedom and summer joy? Does a high school yearbook photo make you feel vulnerable and on the verge of your life? How about a shot of professional you at the podium—are you overcome by a feeling of pride, or perhaps compassion for the person you were?
Memories shouldn’t be things we are reminded of by Facebook or Google or Apple Photos (don't get me wrong, those are fun...but your memories aren’t all housed on your computer!!). Memories should be moments we can return to whenever we want, whether by flipping to a page in a photo book or by popping some cookies in the oven and being transported by the smell.
Savoring happy memories may be significant for one’s ability to cope with stress, potentially promoting better decision-making and wellbeing, according to one study; and other research shows that “intentional activities that boost positive emotions” include remembrance of positive autobiographical memories.
So—there are mental health reasons for reminiscing, for sure. But even if sitting with your memories just gave you a temporary mood boost, wouldn’t it be worth doing for that alone? I don’t know about you, but finding a few minutes to simply smile and feel nostalgic is a welcome gift to myself on any given day!
So I challenge you:
Can you pull out an old photo today and indulge in some intentional remembrance?
Can you pick up the phone to tell a loved one you were remembering “that time we…” [fill in the blank]?
Can you find five minutes to journal about a happy childhood memory (or pull out an old diary and revisit some random day from your past)?
Can you stare into space and conjure a memory from a particular time in your child’s life? (As a parent of a teenager I find that waiting in car pick-up lines is an opportune time for such intentional remembering; walking in nature or while doing the dishes are other great options!)
Can you show your child a photo from years ago and share a story or two?
I know you CAN do any of these things, the question is really: WILL you? No pressure to DO anything with your memories…just sit with them and visit a while 🤗
What are you remembering...?
What should I do with my journals?
Have you ever thought about what will happen to your diaries—who will read them, how you may one day use them? Join me as I consider this profound question.
So many factors come into play when considering whether to save or destroy your personal journals. What’s your thinking?
As an off-and-on journaler since young adulthood, there are two main things that stop me from being consistent with my journaling: finding time, and wondering what on earth I should do with them after they are written.
The first challenge—time—is fairly easily addressable. I have tried gratitude journals or other short memory-keeping prompts that can be completed in just 10 to 15 minutes with great success. I also firmly believe that we make time for what matters to us—so if keeping a diary can make its way atop your priority list, chances are you can squeeze it into even the busiest schedule.
But that second question troubles me more.
The case for destroying my journals upon completion?
A personal journal has value, in my opinion, because it is a place where we can be our unfettered selves—free from the constraints of worrying about what other people will think, or worrying about the quality of that writing. A diary is a place to be vulnerable, even to work out problems through the very act of writing about them.
Are they something I envision other people reading? No.
At times I have formatted my journal as an ongoing correspondence with my deceased mom. It helps orient me, feel like I am speaking to someone rather than sending messages out into the ether, and imagine a compassionate soul receiving my words. Perhaps if she were still alive I could envision her actually reading them. But, well, I wouldn’t want anyone else to read them.
Which poses a dilemma if I ever want to use those diaries as a touchstone for future memoir writing, as so many life writers do (and as I often recommend!). Because if I hold onto them, someone else may find them. If I hold onto them, someone else will certainly discover them when I am gone.
Let me be clear: It’s not like I am writing anything awful in those journals. On the contrary, the types of things I share—the overwrought emotions and unprocessed (often reactionary) thoughts—are likely universal in many ways. But they’re not necessarily how I want to be remembered. It’s why at some point in my 30s I destroyed my diaries from my teen years (I am ashamed now to say how dreadfully embarrassed I felt upon rereading them as an adult—I hadn’t yet learned to be compassionate with my former selves). I am still not even sure if I am happy or regretful of that decision to get rid of those angsty handwritten pages.
In the introduction to A Writer’s Diary, the collected journals of Virginia Woolf, Woolf’s husband writes:
“At the best and even unexpurgated, diaries give a distorted or one-sided portrait of the writer, because, as Virginia Woolf herself remarks somewhere in these diaries, one gets into the habit of recording one particular kind of mood—irritation or misery, say—and of not writing one’s diary when one is feeling the opposite. The portrait is therefore from the start unbalanced…”
…a fairly adequate description of why I don’t intend my diaries to be read by anyone other than me.
When I ponder the question of whether to save or destroy my journals, though, I sometimes come to the conclusion that I should save them, but that I should write with an audience of my child or future descendants in mind. That’s certainly what some famous diarists have done. But, as Joan Didion wrote in the essay “On Keeping a Notebook”:
“…our notebooks give us away, for however dutifully we record what we see around us, the common denominator of all we see is always, transparently, shamelessly, the implacable ‘I.’ We are not talking here about the kind of notebook that is patently for public consumption, a structural conceit for binding together a series of graceful pensées; we are talking about something private, about bits of the mind’s string too short to use, an indiscriminate and erratic assemblage with meaning only for its maker.”
Ah, so much fodder for thought, and yet I reach no conclusions—“to save or to destroy my journals” still exists as an unanswered question for me.
Where do you stand on this?
The case for saving our journals
Of the many reasons one might have for keeping a journal, here are a few that, in my opinion, merit their safekeeping:
keeping a journal as an autobiographical record
Whether as a tool for future memoir writing or as a piece of your legacy you pass down to loved ones as is, a journal can be an important piece of your personal history to preserve. Read this post for a specific writing prompt that will yield fodder for your autobiographical writing.
keeping a journal as a personal record
Such personal writing can be a valuable resource for you to look back on later in life. They can help you to remember important events, to track your progress, and to reflect on your thoughts and feelings. Read a thought-provoking exploration of what it means to write memoir as a tool for self-understanding (“like a good therapist”) in this old New York Times article.
keeping a journal as a source of inspiration
Perhaps you plan to use your journal as a source of inspiration for your writing, art, or music. They can also help you to come up with new ideas for projects or to solve creative problems. Read these thoughtful reflections from The Marginalian by Maria Popova on celebrated writers and their ideas about the creative benefits of keeping a diary (there are, unsurprisingly, conflicting notions on whether or not to keep said diaries!).
Ultimately, the decision of what to do with your journals is up to you. There is no right or wrong answer, and the best option for you will depend on your individual circumstances and preferences. That said, I would absolutely love to hear what you think about this! Please share in the comments—I promise to reply and get a conversation going.
The low-pressure, high-yield memory-keeping project I’ve recently started
I might not have time for the full-fledged memoir I want to write, but I can make time every day for this easy and significant journal exercise—and so can you.
Not every memory-keeping project we undertake needs to be ambitious—even getting one short memory down on paper each night can be both enjoyable and fruitful.
I help people preserve their family stories and personal legacies for a living, and yet I am way behind in documenting my own (the cobbler’s shoes and all that).
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I haven’t begun—I started my business after creating an heirloom book in my mom’s memory, after all. And I do create family annual books that are predominantly photo books with some text. But these don’t tell my stories—or my family stories—in the in-depth way I know I’d like to.
For the moment, I don’t have time to delve into a big project of my own, not when I am juggling so many for my clients. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do some things along the way to work towards those goals.
For example, down the road I hope to undertake (and finish!) a family heritage cookbook. This has been on my mind for a few years now. So I do little things when I can: I have scanned all my mom’s and grandmother’s handwritten recipes that mean something to me; I have handwritten the recipes for some of my son’s favorite foods, and digitized those, as well. And about twice a year when I am making something I know I’d like to include in the cookbook, I get out my good camera and take some beautifully lit shots of the ingredients, prep, and finished dish. When it comes time to make this “a project,” I’ll be well on my way.
Similarly, I have begun early steps towards a more in-depth storytelling book about my own experiences. I have made a life timeline, and brainstormed topics and themes I would like to write about. But I am still mulling over how I’d like that book to take shape, and I don’t presently have the time to devote to it.
Yet, NOT doing these things now gives me pause. I won’t say it keeps me up at night, but it did preoccupy me on a recent night when I couldn’t sleep. I am more conscious than most of how often people miss the opportunity to capture their loved ones’ stories. All too often I am helping people preserve stories through second-hand accounts—what someone remembers their father having told them before he died; or scouring a grandmother’s meager journals for snippets of her own stories.
It’s not for nothing that the single most resonant quote I share with people is this one from William Zinsser (the quote appears on the home page of my website for this reason):
“One of the saddest sentences I know is ‘I wish I had asked my mother about that.’ ”
I don’t want that to ever be a sentence my own son utters.
And so, while I am moving at a snail’s pace with the bigger memory-keeping projects I aspire to, I recently vowed to devote some time every night to a more simple memory-keeping endeavor: I have designated a journal as my “I Remember” book. In it, I try every night to write at least one sentence, maybe more, that begin with the words “I remember.”
I was inspired first by the prevalence of easy-to-maintain journals such as this line-a-day memory journal or this five-minute gratitude journal. I see these posted across my social media feeds by friends and influencers alike, and am drawn to their low-pressure approach to diary keeping. But because I want to focus right now on recording memories from my past, not my current day-to-day, I took inspiration as well from a book I was first introduced to by Dani Shapiro: I Remember, by Joe Brainard.
I have written about the value of this book before, and even shared some wonderful remembrances written by colleagues and friends here (it’s great inspiration!). So why did I never think of making this a nightly practice? Probably, I imagine, because I always tend to “think big.”
But I’ve thought of it now, and I’ve begun. And I am loving it.
How you can start your own low-pressure memory-keeping practice
Would you like to start your own low-pressure, high-yield memory keeping project?
Simply:
Buy a journal or create a new document on your computer.
Open this journal or document every day to write down one (or a few!) short remembrances. Just a sentence or two each, even a phrase if you feels it’s evocative.
Optional:
Date your entries if you like, or simply keep a continual list without regard for when you wrote them.
Set a regular time for writing in your “I Remember” journal, or carry it with you for whenever a few moments present themselves.
Consider that one day you may use this journal as a jumping-off point for a bigger personal history project—but know that by no means do you have to! This book will be chock-full of memories that I assure you will run the gamut from fun and lighthearted to deep and reflective—and it may one day be cherished by your own next of kin.
See what I mean about low pressure? Won’t you join me in this intentional remembering? Honestly, it’s one of my favorite things to do every evening, and I feel so wonderfully accomplished as the pages continue to be filled. One memory at a time…
How I’ve gotten to know more than 50 people I’ve never met this year
How lucky I am to "meet" your loved ones through the tributes you and others share in their honor! The stories that memorialize them live on for generations.
Kathy was an incredible mentor, a champion of women in the workforce, and a grandmother whose pride outshone other grandmothers everywhere.
Jim was an avid outdoorsman who found meaning in faith later in life, fell in love when he least expected it, and left a blueprint for how to live for his children.
Jen, who battled cancer like a warrior, embodied positivity, maintained lifelong friendships with her sorority sisters, bought a camper van to go on adventures with her twin daughters, and made killer chocolate chip pancakes.
Lena was a Russian Jewish immigrant who approached the world with a sense of wonder and gratitude, found great joy in motherhood, and once inspired a friend to buy half a cow (that one’s a long story, but well worth hearing!).
I never met Kathy, Jim, Jen, or Lena, but I feel like I knew them—the best of them, the pieces of them that friends, family, and colleagues wrote about in tributes that promise to keep their legacies alive for their loved ones and the next generation.
Tribute books that honor the legacy of lost loved ones
Since I launched Modern Heirloom Books in 2016 upon writing and designing a tribute book in honor of my mom, who had died suddenly shortly after I became a mom myself, I have helped more than 100 people honor their own lost loved ones in such books. It is, truly, one of the greatest honors of my career to memorialize people in this way.
When I help people tell their own stories through personal history interviews or memoir coaching, I often talk about how the journey is as important as the finished product. Similarly, when I talk with people who want to celebrate the life of someone they have loved and lost, I talk not just about the journey (because writing about loss can certainly be a healing path through grief), but about the experience after the book is printed: The book, I advise, should be a living memorial, something that you pull out to ‘visit’ with the deceased through the photos and words on the page.
Most people who come to me hoping to make a memorial tribute book do so with the intention of gifting them to the children of the deceased. Sometimes, those children are adults who have given the eulogy at their parent’s funeral service; other times, they are mere babies who will have no real memories of their parent.
Many times, a spouse, parent, or child wants to memorialize their relative in print for themselves and their family.
Either way, gathering stories about the deceased from a group of people ensures that many sides of their personality are highlighted. Work colleagues share stories that family members likely never heard before. Friends offer up remembrances from younger years that enlighten another side of the subject. And family members get to the heart of the person, telling everyday stories alongside monumental ones, revealing what they loved about the person, what they will miss, what they want to remember.
All of these tributes together create a lasting legacy of the deceased, and I am privileged and honored to help usher them into the world—just as I am privileged and honored to “get to know” these individuals through the love and words of those they have left behind.
Tribute book resources and ideas
8 tips for creating your own tribute book in honor of a lost loved one
If you’d like to create a book but would rather have professional guidance along the way, contact Dawn to learn how we could work together on a tribute book or other heirloom book project.
I’m feeling stuck with my life story writing (can you relate?)
Sometimes a life writing project can become overwhelming—so much so that we stop writing at all. Get back on track with your memoir with this three-step reset.
When our memoir writing feels overwhelming and writer’s block sets in, sometimes a project reset is in order.
I spend my days helping people write their memoirs and craft their life stories into meaningful heirloom books to pass on—and yet, when it comes to writing my own personal stories, I have been completely stuck.
For a while I thought it was burnout, not having the energy to focus on my own stories because I was “storied out” from everyone else’s. But that’s not it.
Sometimes I think it’s my perfectionism creeping in—it has a habit of hindering my progress when I feel that something isn’t living up to my overly high standards (even though, as a longtime editor, I am fully aware that first drafts are meant to be anything but perfect!). But it’s not this, either, for I have done too little to even assess my storytelling as imperfect.
Could it really be that I am feeling overwhelmed by the task before me? How could that be when I work regularly to calm overwhelm and set priorities for my clients every single day? How could that be when I’ve written so much about how to approach your life story writing that I could gather it all into a book (hey, why haven’t I done that yet, either?!)?
Well, here’s the reason I haven’t been making progress with my own personal narrative: Despite knowing the steps—and despite having taken the first few of them—somewhere along the way I neglect my plan. I ignore the life timeline I’ve thoughtfully written; I start jotting notes in an entirely new notebook (separate from my previous writings, many on the same topics); and I keep going back to square one, thinking my newer ideas are more urgent than those I have already begun executing. I am tripping over myself constantly.
A project reset: 3 steps to getting my (and your) life writing back on track
I spent much of this morning procrastinating in the form of…
cleaning out my email inbox
scrubbing every surface in my office…and kitchen, and bedroom…
driving into town to run two errands that could totally have waited!
This is a routine familiar to every professional writer I know, but I feel no less guilty for knowing this.
The oft-repeated advice for escaping this avoidance routine? SIT IN THE CHAIR AND WRITE. That’s it. Just sit. And write.
But, to circle back to the first part of this blog post: I don’t know what to write. And so…a full project reset is in order.
If you, too, are feeling overwhelmed in the middle of your life writing endeavor, try this: Go back to square one and organize (or, perhaps, reorganize) everything:
Compile all your writing.
Gather all of your writing into one pile. Include journals (even the ones with a mere two paragraphs of personal writing within their pages); loose papers (even the notes scribbled on the back of bill envelopes); and printouts of writing you’ve done on your computer. If you’ve created a life timeline, have this on hand, as well.
Sift through your stories.
Set aside a block of time—likely between one and two hours—to review what you’ve got. Take notes about recurring themes you encounter in your writing, and about new ideas that come to mind during your reading. Are there glaring omissions? Blocks of writing that feel more complete than the rest?
Plan with intention.
Make a plan for diving back in to your memoir project with intention. Designate ONE place for your writing to happen (a single document on your computer, perhaps, or a preferred notebook for handwritten musings). Decide on a major theme for your project, and file any writing that does not adhere to this theme in a folder marked “future writing.” And finally, set some reasonable goals for yourself: Will you write a little every day, or for a chunk of time every Saturday, perhaps? Do you aim to have your stories compiled into a book (if so, you may want to start gathering photos as you go). Are there holes in your storytelling that may need further research—a conversation with mom or a sibling, maybe, or a trip to the library? If so, sketch out a plan for moving forward with all those elements.
Sometimes our storytelling gets muddled. There’s so much we want to say, we’re scattered in our approach, we start and stop so often that we lose our place. It’s all okay. So I tell myself, and so I say to you! Hopefully, a reset is all we need. It’s what’s on my agenda for tomorrow, now that my home is squeaky clean and, fingers crossed, procrastination–proof…
Americans regret not recording stories of their loved ones—don’t be one of them.
Recording loved ones' stories is important to most Americans, and yet not even half of us have done so. Here, resources to make memory-keeping easier.
A recent poll of more than 6,000 Americans showed that only one in three Americans has recorded or documented a conversation with a loved one in order to preserve their memory of them.
Nearly half of those polled say they regret not doing so with someone who has died.
These stats sadden me, a devoted storyteller whose mission is to help as many people as possible preserve their own memories—and those of loved ones—for the next generations. While it saddens me, though, it doesn’t surprise me.
Why am I not surprised?
Why am I not surprised that so few people have taken the initiative to record stories from their loved ones? Well, first of all, it’s easy (so easy!) to take for granted that those we love will always be there. We don’t want to think about a time when they won’t—and preserving their stories for the future seems to somehow bring that notion to the fore.
Moreover, for many people recording stories seems like a daunting task: Won’t it take too long? What questions would I ask? How would I record the conversations? What would I do with them afterwards?
For some, telling their own stories seems vain (it’s not). Still others think they have no stories to tell—or that no one would care to hear them (again, not likely; I haven’t met a person yet who didn’t have some amazing stories inside them—and everyone underestimates how their stories will be received by loved ones).
So, no, I am not surprised that 59 percent of Americans have not recorded conversations with a loved one. But I do see change on the horizon.
Rays of hope
“Maybe it’s the younger generation’s familiarity with technology...that makes this task more approachable—obvious, even.”
I see a glimmer of hope amidst these poll results, too: Younger respondents were by far the most likely to have said “yes, I have recorded a conversation of a loved one in order to preserve my memory of them.” While only about a quarter of folks aged 45-65 have recorded a loved one’s stories, 44 percent of those 18-to-29 have, and 42 percent of those 30-44. Not quite double the older participants, but almost!
Maybe it’s the younger generation’s familiarity with technology and their engrained habit of recording so many things in their daily lives, that makes this task more approachable—obvious, even.
Or perhaps it’s millennials’ well-documented love of nostalgia.
Whatever the reason, the trend is on the upswing: More younger members in American families are recording conversations with loved ones!
Resources for recording your own family stories
Are your ready to hop on the memory-keeping bandwagon and record a conversation with a loved one? Let’s work together to bring these numbers up—to make story preservation an everyday thing that, dare we day, a majority of Americans not only strive to do, but really DO!
A wonderful thing that will happen along the way if we indeed begin to record our personal histories? We’ll all have fewer regrets.
In order to help with your DIY story gathering, here are some time-tested resources that I offer to you for free—please don’t download them unless you plan to put them to use 😉
FREE E-BOOK DOWNLOADS
HELPFUL ARTICLES FOR RECORDING YOUR LOVED ONE’S STORIES