Why this work is so personal to me

When I shared last month that I started my business because I needed flexible work while my kids were in school, I realized that wasn’t entirely true. I could have done many things to make a living.

So why personal history films?

The answer sits on my desk – a framed photograph from the last time I saw my grandmother.

I grew up with only one grandparent. Two had already passed away by the time I was born, and the third was mostly absent. My grandmother—my father’s mother—was an immigrant from Russia. According to her stories, she escaped pogroms by traveling on horseback, eventually reached a ship, and ultimately landed in Baltimore at the age of twelve.

With little formal education, she worked as a seamstress, then later ran a corner grocery store with my grandfather—work that eventually put all four of their sons through college and professional school.

She moved to Florida when I was young, but would come to visit for weeks at a time. As a latchkey kid with busy parents, I cherished that time. We played cards, did our nails, watched TV, baked mandel bread, and talked. I loved listening to her thick Russian accent, watching her immigrant habits (including using Crisco as hair conditioner!), and reading her Horoscope to her.

When home video cameras became popular, my dad tried to record her stories. But we filmed late at night when her energy was low, didn’t prepare good questions, and didn’t store the VHS tape properly. By the time we tried to transfer it, most of the footage was destroyed.

My grandmother died suddenly of a heart attack when I was twenty. I was left with a deep ache—missing the comfort, the stories, the feeling of having a grandma to curl up with.

Years later, when I met my now-husband and learned that his grandmother lived just fifteen minutes away, I was thrilled. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being around an older person—listening to their wisdom and memories. I kept encouraging her to record her stories, and she kept saying no. But eventually she agreed.

I spent two hours interviewing her and turned it into a short film for her three children and seven grandchildren. (See clip above.) They heard stories they had never heard before. Watching their reactions was incredibly gratifying.

That experience unlocked something for me.

I realized I wanted to do for other families what I hadn’t been able to do for my own—capture stories while there was still time. In some ways, it was also about filling the space left by my grandmother’s absence. What I wouldn’t give now to watch a video of her telling her stories in her own words.

That’s why it’s hard for me when people hesitate or wait. Waiting is a gamble. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t, the loss can’t be undone.

I think my answer for why I started my business – and my real passion – is getting to know other people’s parents and grandparents—and treating them as if they were my own.

For the people we love, these films help us hold onto them after they’re gone. For those we leave behind, they’re a gift: a chance to hear our voice, our stories, our wishes – to know we said what mattered.

And don’t we all want to make things a little easier for the people we love?

The bottom line is simple: don’t wait.