The Weight of 'I Should Have'
Sarah White
Feb 8, 2025
9 min read
Reflection
The Three Words That Haunt
Ask anyone who has lost a loved one, and many will tell you the same thing: 'I should have recorded them.'
It's not just about the voice. It's about the stories, the wisdom, the inside jokes, the way they said your name. Once they're gone, these details start to fade — and the regret only grows.
These three words — 'I should have' — are some of the heaviest in any language. They carry the weight of missed opportunities, of time we can never get back, of recordings we never made.
The Anatomy of Regret
Regret about not recording loved ones has a specific quality. It's not like regretting a career choice or a relationship decision. Those regrets are about paths not taken. This regret is about something irretrievably lost.
You can change your job. You can mend a relationship. But you cannot bring back a voice that was never recorded. There is no remedy. There is no second chance. There is only the weight of 'I should have.'
And it grows heavier over time. The first year after losing someone, the regret might be sharp but bearable. By the fifth year, when you realize you can no longer accurately recall the sound of their voice, it becomes crushing.
The Three Words That Haunt
Ask anyone who has lost a loved one, and many will tell you the same thing: 'I should have recorded them.'
It's not just about the voice. It's about the stories, the wisdom, the inside jokes, the way they said your name. Once they're gone, these details start to fade — and the regret only grows.
These three words — 'I should have' — are some of the heaviest in any language. They carry the weight of missed opportunities, of time we can never get back, of recordings we never made.
The Anatomy of Regret
Regret about not recording loved ones has a specific quality. It's not like regretting a career choice or a relationship decision. Those regrets are about paths not taken. This regret is about something irretrievably lost.
You can change your job. You can mend a relationship. But you cannot bring back a voice that was never recorded. There is no remedy. There is no second chance. There is only the weight of 'I should have.'
And it grows heavier over time. The first year after losing someone, the regret might be sharp but bearable. By the fifth year, when you realize you can no longer accurately recall the sound of their voice, it becomes crushing.
The things we wish we'd done differently can weigh on us forever. This is about turning regret into purpose.
A photograph captures a moment. A voice captures a soul.
The things we wish we'd done differently can weigh on us forever. This is about turning regret into purpose.
A photograph captures a moment. A voice captures a soul.
Carrying the Weight
Three years after losing my grandmother, I still hear echoes of her voice in my memory. But they're getting quieter. The exact way she pronounced my name, the rhythm of her laugh — these are fading, and there's nothing I can do to bring them back.
This weight never fully lifts. But it can become purpose.
I've learned to carry it differently. Instead of letting the regret crush me, I let it drive me. Every day that I work on the UNA movement, I feel the weight transform into something useful.
Turning Regret Into Action
Every person I encourage to record their loved ones lightens the load a little. Every family that captures a grandmother's story or a father's advice is one less family that will carry this weight.
That's what UNA is about. Not dwelling in regret, but using it to help others avoid the same silence.
When someone tells me they recorded their parent after hearing about UNA, the weight lifts a little. When I imagine their children and grandchildren hearing that recording decades from now, the weight becomes almost bearable.
The Gift of Urgency
My regret gave me something valuable: urgency. I no longer take voices for granted. I no longer assume there will be time later. I record conversations that once would have slipped by unpreserved.
This urgency is something I can share. It's the heart of the UNA message: Don't wait. Don't assume. Don't carry the weight I carry. Record them now.
Carrying the Weight
Three years after losing my grandmother, I still hear echoes of her voice in my memory. But they're getting quieter. The exact way she pronounced my name, the rhythm of her laugh — these are fading, and there's nothing I can do to bring them back.
This weight never fully lifts. But it can become purpose.
I've learned to carry it differently. Instead of letting the regret crush me, I let it drive me. Every day that I work on the UNA movement, I feel the weight transform into something useful.
Turning Regret Into Action
Every person I encourage to record their loved ones lightens the load a little. Every family that captures a grandmother's story or a father's advice is one less family that will carry this weight.
That's what UNA is about. Not dwelling in regret, but using it to help others avoid the same silence.
When someone tells me they recorded their parent after hearing about UNA, the weight lifts a little. When I imagine their children and grandchildren hearing that recording decades from now, the weight becomes almost bearable.
The Gift of Urgency
My regret gave me something valuable: urgency. I no longer take voices for granted. I no longer assume there will be time later. I record conversations that once would have slipped by unpreserved.
This urgency is something I can share. It's the heart of the UNA message: Don't wait. Don't assume. Don't carry the weight I carry. Record them now.
Conclusion
If you're reading this and you still have the chance, please don't wait. Record them today. Don't carry the weight of 'I should have.'
And if you already carry this weight — if you're reading this too late for some loved ones — know that you're not alone. Join the movement. Help others avoid the silence. Turn your regret into their gift.
Because the weight of 'I should have' is heavy. But the purpose of helping others can help us carry it.
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Stories of loss, love, and the importance of preserving the voices that matter most.
Every Voice Matters
The stories inside your family won't wait forever. Start preserving them — one song, one question, one moment at a time.
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Every Voice Matters
The stories inside your family won't wait forever. Start preserving them — one song, one question, one moment at a time.
Every Voice Matters
The stories inside your family won't wait forever. Start preserving them — one song, one question, one moment at a time.