The Way Memories Slip

There’s a strange and tender moment that happens as we get older: we start noticing the way memories slip. A phrase your mum always said, a story your grandad told every Christmas, the way a loved one laughed before they caught themselves. These tiny fragments matter more than we admit, yet they’re the first things to fade.

Modern life doesn’t help. We photograph almost everything, but rarely the things that define us. We have blurry phone clips of meals, pets, nights out, yet often nothing of the conversations, quirks, voices or wisdom we wish we’d kept. Then something happens, a loss, a diagnosis, a milestone, and the absence of those deeper memories hits with a surprising weight.

It’s this gap, this quiet ache, that I've been thinking about more and more. In the last few years I've heard countless people say, “I just wish I had more of them on video.” Not posed, polished footage, but something honest. Something that feels like sitting across the table from them again.

The truth is, storytelling is one of the oldest human instincts we have. It’s how we make sense of our lives. Families pass down their identity through stories: the embarrassing tales siblings weaponise, the “remember when” disasters everyone pretends they’re over, the private jokes that make absolutely no sense to outsiders. These aren’t trivial. They’re anchors.

But memories are fragile. Life moves on quickly, and we assume there will always be more time, more chances to ask, record, capture. When life proves otherwise, the regret can be sharp.

This is where the idea behind Chapters Video began. After two decades as a videographer and, more recently, training in counselling and celebrancy, I realised I wanted to help people preserve the substance of their lives, not just the highlight reel. Chapters is designed for the moments that aren’t easily repeated. A mother wanting to leave her children stories they’ll tell for decades. A couple wanting guest advice at their wedding. A family facing illness who want to safeguard memories, voices, reflections. Even something as practical as recording a living will with clarity and compassion.

The camera becomes more than a tool; it becomes a listener.

What matters isn’t perfection. It’s authenticity. The imperfect pauses. The nervous smile before a confession. The warmth that rises when someone talks about who they love. This is the kind of footage that becomes priceless in the years to come.

We’re living in an era of AI, deepfakes and digital overload, yet strangely, it’s making the real stuff more valuable. A video of someone you love, speaking their truth in their own words, is the kind of treasure that future generations will hold like gold.

If you’ve ever felt that tug, the instinct to capture the essence of someone before time carries it away, you’re not alone. And it’s never too early to start collecting the stories that make your family uniquely yours.