Why I Built Legacy Everhart

There's nothing I wouldn't give to hear their voices again.

I was born in Boston, but I didn't grow up there. My grandmother, my mother's mother, took me in from birth and raised me as her own in North Carolina. She'd already raised five children of her own, all grown and out of the house, but she took me anyway, because my mother wasn't in a place to. As far as I knew growing up, my grandmother was my mother in every way that mattered.

She died of ovarian cancer in nineteen ninety five. I was in the seventh grade. After she passed, I moved across the street to live with my great-grandmother, the woman I called Nana, who raised me the rest of the way until I was grown.

I can close my eyes right now and see my grandmother as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember her face, her hands, the way she carried herself, the lessons she taught me about persevering through anything. But I cannot remember her voice. Too much time has passed, and it's simply gone. That loss sits in a place in my heart that nothing else quite touches.

My Nana died in two thousand nine, sixteen years ago now. I can still remember her voice, faintly, but I know that fade is coming for that memory too. I don't have a recording of either of them. No voicemail, no home video, nothing. Just silence where their voices used to be.

That's why Legacy Everhart exists. Not because I saw a gap in a market, but because I know exactly what it costs to lose something you didn't realize you needed to save. It is such a small act, sitting down and recording someone's voice, and it can feel unnecessary in the moment, easy to put off for another day. But it may be one of the most meaningful things you ever do for yourself, for your children, and for generations you'll never meet.

There is nothing in this world I wouldn't give to hear my grandmothers' voices one more time. I built this so that no one else has to feel that particular ache.

There's nothing I wouldn't give to hear their voices again.