Why I Finally Recorded My Grandmother's Story
Sarah White
Aug 10, 2025
8 min read
Family Stories
The Moment Everything Changed
For years, I kept saying 'next week' or 'when I have more time.' My grandmother was always there, always ready to share another story about growing up in Dublin, about her mother's kitchen, about the war years. I thought I had forever.
Then one morning, I got the call. She was in the hospital. Six weeks later, she was gone — and with her, 83 years of stories I'll never hear again.
I remember the exact moment I realized what I had lost. I was sitting in her empty kitchen, looking at the chair where she always sat, and I realized I would never hear her voice again. Not her laugh. Not her stories. Not even the way she said my name.
The silence was deafening.
The Regret That Never Fades
People often ask me if the regret gets easier over time. It doesn't. Three years later, I still catch myself reaching for my phone to call her. I still have moments where I desperately want to ask her a question — about a family recipe, about a relative I barely remember, about what it was like when she was young.
The hardest part isn't the big moments. It's the small ones. When I cook and realize I don't know how much salt she used in her soda bread. When my daughter asks about her great-great-grandmother and I can only show photographs, not play recordings. When I try to describe her laugh to someone and realize the sound is fading from my memory.
That's the cruelest part of losing someone without recording them — you don't just lose them once. You lose them slowly, bit by bit, as the details slip away.
The Moment Everything Changed
For years, I kept saying 'next week' or 'when I have more time.' My grandmother was always there, always ready to share another story about growing up in Dublin, about her mother's kitchen, about the war years. I thought I had forever.
Then one morning, I got the call. She was in the hospital. Six weeks later, she was gone — and with her, 83 years of stories I'll never hear again.
I remember the exact moment I realized what I had lost. I was sitting in her empty kitchen, looking at the chair where she always sat, and I realized I would never hear her voice again. Not her laugh. Not her stories. Not even the way she said my name.
The silence was deafening.
The Regret That Never Fades
People often ask me if the regret gets easier over time. It doesn't. Three years later, I still catch myself reaching for my phone to call her. I still have moments where I desperately want to ask her a question — about a family recipe, about a relative I barely remember, about what it was like when she was young.
The hardest part isn't the big moments. It's the small ones. When I cook and realize I don't know how much salt she used in her soda bread. When my daughter asks about her great-great-grandmother and I can only show photographs, not play recordings. When I try to describe her laugh to someone and realize the sound is fading from my memory.
That's the cruelest part of losing someone without recording them — you don't just lose them once. You lose them slowly, bit by bit, as the details slip away.
I always thought there would be more time. More conversations. More chances to hit record. I was wrong.
A photograph captures a moment. A voice captures a soul.
I always thought there would be more time. More conversations. More chances to hit record. I was wrong.
A photograph captures a moment. A voice captures a soul.
What I Wish I Had Done
In those final weeks, I tried to capture what I could. A few voice memos. Some shaky video. But it wasn't enough. I wanted her recipe for soda bread — the one she never wrote down. I wanted to hear her sing that lullaby one more time. I wanted her to tell my future children about their great-great-grandmother.
Now I have silence where her voice should be.
Looking back, I realize how easy it would have been. Just 30 minutes with my phone recording. A few simple questions: 'Tell me about your childhood.' 'What was your happiest day?' 'What do you want your great-grandchildren to know?' That's all it would have taken to preserve a lifetime.
But I kept waiting for the perfect moment. The perfect setup. The perfect questions. And while I waited, time ran out.
The Promise I Made
Standing at her graveside in Dublin, rain falling on the ancient headstones around us, I made a promise. It wasn't to her — she was beyond promises. It was to myself. To my children. To every family who might face this same silence.
I promised that no other family should have to feel this regret. No other grandchild should lose their grandmother's voice to 'tomorrow.'
That promise became UNA. A movement dedicated to preserving the voices that matter most — before it's too late.
Why I Share This Story
I share this story not for sympathy, but as a warning. If you're reading this and you still have grandparents, parents, or loved ones whose voices you want to preserve — please don't make my mistake. Don't wait for the perfect moment. Don't tell yourself there's always next week.
Pick up your phone. Ask them a question. Hit record.
The technology is in your pocket. The time is now. The only thing standing between you and a preserved voice is the decision to start.
What I Wish I Had Done
In those final weeks, I tried to capture what I could. A few voice memos. Some shaky video. But it wasn't enough. I wanted her recipe for soda bread — the one she never wrote down. I wanted to hear her sing that lullaby one more time. I wanted her to tell my future children about their great-great-grandmother.
Now I have silence where her voice should be.
Looking back, I realize how easy it would have been. Just 30 minutes with my phone recording. A few simple questions: 'Tell me about your childhood.' 'What was your happiest day?' 'What do you want your great-grandchildren to know?' That's all it would have taken to preserve a lifetime.
But I kept waiting for the perfect moment. The perfect setup. The perfect questions. And while I waited, time ran out.
The Promise I Made
Standing at her graveside in Dublin, rain falling on the ancient headstones around us, I made a promise. It wasn't to her — she was beyond promises. It was to myself. To my children. To every family who might face this same silence.
I promised that no other family should have to feel this regret. No other grandchild should lose their grandmother's voice to 'tomorrow.'
That promise became UNA. A movement dedicated to preserving the voices that matter most — before it's too late.
Why I Share This Story
I share this story not for sympathy, but as a warning. If you're reading this and you still have grandparents, parents, or loved ones whose voices you want to preserve — please don't make my mistake. Don't wait for the perfect moment. Don't tell yourself there's always next week.
Pick up your phone. Ask them a question. Hit record.
The technology is in your pocket. The time is now. The only thing standing between you and a preserved voice is the decision to start.
Conclusion
If you still have the chance to record your loved ones, please don't wait. Tomorrow isn't promised. The voice you want to hear forever needs to be captured today.
Join the UNA movement. Share your story. Help other families avoid the silence I now live with. Together, we can ensure that no voice fades away forgotten.
Because once they're gone, they're gone forever. And 'I should have' is the heaviest phrase in any language.
Blogs
Check Out Other Articles
Stories of loss, love, and the importance of preserving the voices that matter most.
Blogs
Check Out Other Articles
Stories of loss, love, and the importance of preserving the voices that matter most.
Blogs
Check Out Other Articles
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.
65+ Songs
6 Albums
5+ Streaming Platforms
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.