A little over a year ago, I found myself picking up my camera without a clear plan or agenda. I wasn’t chasing a story for work or trying to build something for show. I was simply sitting across from my grandfather, asking her to tell me about her life.
That conversation changed something in me.
Becoming a parent had already started to shift my perspective. Suddenly, time felt more delicate. I began to wonder what memories my son might miss out on—what stories would be lost if we didn’t take the time to preserve them. And I realized how many questions I had never asked the people who helped shape me.
So I kept going.
After that first conversation with my grandfather, I sat down with each of my grandparents. I recorded hours of interviews, hearing stories I’d never heard before—some funny, some heavy, all meaningful. In doing so, I was able to preserve pieces of them in a way that felt tangible and permanent.
What started as a personal project quickly grew into something bigger. Documenting these stories became a way for me to reflect on where I come from and what I value. It gave me clarity about the kind of work that truly matters to me—the kind that slows down, listens deeply, and holds space for the lives we so often rush past.
And it also made me think about the stories we don’t get to capture.
I never had the chance to do this for my wife’s grandparents. That absence—of memory, of voice, of presence—has stayed with me. It’s what made me realize just how important this work is, and how meaningful it could be for other families, too.
That’s where the spark for Radiant Star Studios came from.
What began as a deeply personal journey has grown into a calling. I want to help others preserve the voices and stories of their loved ones while there’s still time. Because these stories matter. And once they’re gone, we don’t get them back.
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