Not what job you had. Not how much money you made. But who you actually were. As a kid, I always thought my parents were just... my parents. As if they'd been exactly this way since the day they were born -- someone who cooks, who works, who takes care of the family. Then one day I saw a photo. My dad, twenty years old, riding a bike, grinning like a kid. That's when I realized: before he became a father, he was once just a boy. We all know who our parents are. We rarely know who they used to be. Who was their best friend growing up? When was their first heartbreak? What's the wildest thing they ever did when they were young? Was there a dream they never got to chase? These are the things that make up someone's actual life. Someday our own children will grow up. They'll flip through our photos and ask: "What did Dad used to love?" "What was Mom like when she was young?" "Where did you two first meet?" If no one wrote it down, the answers will quietly disappear. I hope that someday, my children know more than just "Dad." I hope they know the twenty-five-year-old who loved traveling. The one whose first business failed. The one who cried through an entire movie once. The one who always dreamed of taking his family to see the northern lights. Because that's who I actually am. Don't just leave behind the successes. Leave behind the truth. Leave behind the failures, the fears, the regrets, the dreams that never came true. Someday, those stories will let your children know that Mom and Dad were just ordinary people too. Today, find a photo of yourself at twenty. Write a few lines telling the future what you were thinking back then, what you were afraid of, what you dreamed of. Don't write it for today -- write it for the child who'll read it twenty years from now. We've come to believe that no one belongs only to today. We also belong to the future -- to the people not yet born, to whoever, many years from now, wants to really get to know us. That's why we built Homeriah: so the people who come after us can see not just our photos, but who we actually were. Someday, your child might ask: "Dad, what were you like when you were young?" We hope that by then, the answer is already there quietly waiting for them to open.