The Importance#
The main purpose of this post is simple: we should all write more — not just for our hobbies or professions, but for the people closest to us.
I grew up in a household that didn’t spend much time preserving the present or thinking about how it might be viewed in the future.
As I got older, I began asking questions such as:
- What sort of man was my grandfather?
- What hobbies did my grandmother enjoy?
I found myself genuinely wanting to know.
Not just the facts, but the texture of their lives — how they thought, what made them laugh, what mattered to them.
So, like any curious child on a mission, I went to the people who ought to know: my parents.
But memory is fragile. Details fade. Stories soften around the edges.
Do you remember the small, ordinary moments from thirty years ago?
Perhaps some — but probably not most.
And that is where the idea took root for me: I would journal for my children.
"I write for my children."~
What began as a small project — writing entries for my daughter — grew into something more intentional.
I wanted her, one day, to have answers to the kinds of questions I had asked.
I know that by the time she’s old enough to ask them, I will have forgotten far more than I’d like.
Writing things down while they are fresh preserves them as first-hand accounts, not reconstructed memories.
(It’s also one of the reasons I write this blog — so that they, and I, can look back at my thoughts and see who I was at different stages of life.)
For now, I keep their journals private.
When they’re older, I plan to gather the entries and handwrite them into a bound book.
I once imagined producing neat “volumes”, but the truth is I’m not disciplined enough to write daily.
Life is full. Evenings are tiring. Some days simply pass without ceremony.
I would like to build a stronger writing habit — that’s a topic for another post — but the frequency matters less than the intention.
What matters to me is preservation.
I want to capture as much of their early life as I can so that, one day, they have a window into their own beginnings.
"What sort of child was I?"~
I sometimes wish I had more insight into the child I was.
I was born in the 90s — video recorders existed, but who knows where those tapes are now?
I have photo albums, and while a picture may speak a thousand words, it cannot replace a detailed, first-hand account written by someone who was there at that moment in time.
I want my children to grow up knowing that a record of their early years exists — something waiting for them.
Perhaps I’ll give it to them when they turn 21.
Perhaps on their wedding day.
Or perhaps just on an ordinary Tuesday when it feels right.
Beyond preservation, there’s something else: writing about them strengthens my attachment to them.
When I sit and reflect on who they are — their mischief, their curiosity, their small daily triumphs — I become more attentive.
I notice more. I savour more.
I also believe that understanding one’s family story helps build what psychologists sometimes call an intergenerational self — a sense of continuity and belonging that stretches beyond the present moment.
Knowing where you came from can reduce identity confusion, strengthen emotional regulation, and provide a steadier foundation for adulthood.
In some sense, I am the narrator of their early chapters.
I see the sneaky grins, the stubborn streaks, the bursts of kindness. I witness it all, and I want them to know that it was seen.
My hope is that one day they’ll read these words — perhaps even this very post — and come back with more questions.
Because, ultimately, closeness and happiness is the goal. Their happiness is my goal.
"You can write!"~
So I would encourage you to consider writing — not only for your own reflection, but as a gift.
A starting point. A record that says: You were here. You were loved. This is how it began.
And then, when the time comes, they can continue the story themselves.
–Rich
