Why I Built Story & Legacy Films

I couldn't save my own family's stories. That loss became my mission.

Growing Up Different

For years, I kept turning the same questions over in my mind.

Where had my father's intensity, his discipline, his reliability come from? How had my mother maintained such deep and steady joy after growing up in real poverty, far from the culture and community she knew?

As I got older, I began to realize the answers were probably held by the people who had known my parents before I did.

My grandparents.

My grandfather could have told me what daily life looked like when my father was young. He could have helped me trace the relationships, hardships, and moments that shaped that side of my family — the patterns that explained so much about who my father became, and eventually, who I became.

But he died when I was thirteen.

At the time, I didn't understand what had disappeared with him. It wasn't until years later that the loss truly registered. I realized that if I could sit with him for even a few hours, I might finally understand parts of my family that had confused me for most of my life.

But that chance was gone forever.

My brother later tried to interview our grandmother in Kenya.

We had an iPhone, a Sony camera, and a microphone. Technically, we had everything we thought we needed.

But we had waited too long.

Her health had declined. She struggled to remain conscious. My mother had to translate as we tried to guide a conversation we weren't prepared to lead. The interview felt rigid and unfamiliar. Every question carried pressure. There was no natural rhythm, no real comfort, and no clear way to help her move from brief memories into the lessons and meaning behind them.

She passed only a few months later.

What stayed with me wasn't just the loss — it was the realization that we had cared about preserving her story. We owned a camera. We made the trip. And caring still wasn't enough.

Because caring without a process leaves you sitting in a room with someone you love, watching the opportunity slip away.

Years later, while filming the origin story of a local business owner, something finally shifted.

By that point, I had conducted more than one hundred interviews with people from every kind of background. I had learned how to build trust quickly, how to make a professional film set feel like a living room, and how to guide someone through their most meaningful stories without ever making them feel like they were performing.

I had learned that the best interviews don't feel like interviews at all.

They feel like conversations.

As I sat across from that CEO and watched his story unfold naturally — the lessons, the values, the turning points he had never put into words before — I thought about my grandmother.

This was what we had needed.

My family didn't just need better equipment. We needed a thoughtful process, a comfortable environment, and someone who understood how to guide a person toward the stories, values, and wisdom beneath the surface. Someone who knew that the right follow-up question is what takes a memory and turns it into a lesson. A legacy.

I couldn't go back and preserve what my family had already lost.

But I could create a better way for other families to preserve theirs.

That is why I founded Story & Legacy Films.

Through a process I call Guided Legacy Preservation, I help families create cinematic legacy films that capture far more than names, dates, and memories. We preserve the person behind the stories — their voice, their personality, their values, their laughter, their hard-earned wisdom.

Because photographs can show future generations what someone looked like. A written journal may save a few memories. But neither one recreates the feeling of sitting in the room with someone you love.

A Legacy Film does something different.

It's a joyful experience your family can watch together today. And a lasting guide that keeps speaking to the people you love long into the future.