The Moment I Knew This Charity Needed to Exist

There are moments in life that change you. Moments that stay lodged in your memory because they shift your understanding of what matters. The beginning of this charity was not a business plan nor a strategic decision. It was the culmination of pivotal moments that made it impossible for me to look away from what was being lost.

This is the story of how I knew this work needed to exist.

The First Loss I Never Forgot

Long before I ever filmed a legacy video, I carried a quiet regret. My paternal grandmother was a force of nature—a widow who raised two young boys on her own during an era when that wasn’t common, a former Rosie the Riveter who traded her apron for factory overalls during the war, and a cook whose pies and spaghetti were the stuff of legend. By all accounts, she lit up a room. But by the time I was old enough to appreciate her story, Alzheimer’s had already taken so much of her memory.

I grew up regretting that I didn’t have the chance to spend more time with her and to ask her questions about her life. I didn’t have the language for it then, but that loss planted something in me. A longing. A question. A sense that stories matter in ways we don’t fully understand until they’re no longer available to us.

The Young Mother Who Inspired It All

I’ve always loved listening to people’s stories, and even early in my medical career, I felt there had to be more I could do to support patients and families beyond clinical care.

When I moved to a new city for my first job as an oncologist, I became close with Pam, a young mom of three. She was one of those people who was the life of the party—vibrant, hilarious, full of life. As her doctor, watching her body begin to fail was heartbreaking, but what haunted me most was the thought of her children.

I kept thinking: They won’t remember her laugh. They won’t remember the way she told a story. I tentatively suggested the idea of filming a video for her kids. She said yes, then delayed it—fear, superstition, the emotional weight of acknowledging what was coming. When she entered hospice, I knew we had one last chance.

I felt an urgency to pull everything together quickly. The hospice medical director borrowed a camera and I called in a favor to have a coach with experience prompting legacy conversations join the video virtually. Mid‑filming, the medical director called me whispering, “Amy, you wouldn’t believe this video. She has so much energy, and she’s talking like she doesn’t even need her oxygen.”

That night, my friend texted me thanking me for making it happen. I still have that old phone because that message means too much to let go.

Years later, her husband told me it took him a long time to watch the video, but when he finally did, he was deeply grateful to hear her voice again, to have her messages for the kids, to hold onto something real.

I wasn’t just moved; I was changed. It felt like an epiphany: This is what medicine is missing: the human component of connection, identity, and legacy. Narrative medicine and dignity therapy have long shown that storytelling reduces anxiety and strengthens emotional well‑being, and I was witnessing those benefits firsthand.

That was the spark. The charity wouldn’t take shape for a few more years, but the seed was planted the moment that video was made.

The Conversation That Made the Vision Real

For years, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the stories that would disappear if no one captured them. Stories of parents, grandparents, veterans, teachers, caregivers. Stories that held the wisdom, humor, and history of entire families. I knew I wanted to do something, but I couldn’t do it on my own.

In 2020, through my work, I met executive coach Mia Ellis. As we collaborated over the next two years, I realized she shared the same urgency I felt about end‑of‑life care, meaning-making, and the stories families lose when illness shortens time.

Our conversations were honest and unflinching. She understood the weight of what I’d been carrying: the need to save stories before they slipped away. When I asked if she would join me in building a nonprofit dedicated to saving stories for individuals with life-limiting illness, she didn’t hesitate. With her expertise, Mia could step in as a legacy coach and trainer, guiding each interview with the kind of empathy, compassion, and confidence participants would be able to immediately feel.

In that moment, the idea stopped being a private hope. It became a shared vision to help others move from I wish I had said to I’m so glad I did.

Together, we formalized the charity. First came our name (which we would later change to become Amadora Legacy Project) and website, then the network of amazing professional videographers, and finally our planning and programming. I didn’t know how big the organization would become, but I felt certain it was meant to be. At every turn, it seemed the right people arrived to help us at the right time. Every step forward felt like a door opening.

It felt less like building something new and more like stepping into something that had been waiting for us.

The First Official Legacy Video

Nearly 10 years after that first “let’s do it now” video, another extraordinary patient came into my life. From the moment I met her, I felt echoes of Pam—she was another young mom of three, another woman whose laugh filled a room, another vibrant spirit whose children were still too young to remember the details about their incredible mom.

I found myself thinking about her kids and the possibility that her stories, her voice, her laugh might slip away unrecorded. With Mia now at the ready to serve as a legacy coach, suddenly the idea that had lived in my head was becoming real.

With all the pieces finally in place, Jen became our first official legacy video participant. The moment the camera turned on, it felt like the beginning of something much bigger than any of us.

What I Learned From Those First Stories

Pam and Jen’s legacy videos showed me what becomes possible when someone is given the chance to speak their story and what is lost when that opportunity never comes.

This charity exists because no family should lose the chance to hear the voice of someone they love. No child should grow up without knowing the stories that shaped them. No life should fade without its meaning being captured.

Looking back, I can see the thread that connects everything: the grandmother whose stories slipped away, the young mother who recorded her final messages, the families who trusted us with their memories.

The moment I knew this work needed to exist wasn’t a single moment at all. It was a series of moments, with each one a reminder that stories are the most lasting gift we can give.

And that gift is worth holding onto.