I Found Hundreds of Photos in My Stepdad's Garage and I Didn't Recognize Most of his Life

I was in Dallas last week for my stepdad's celebration of life.

It was the surreal kind of service — the kind that comedies are written about, and maybe one day I will write that story too. But celebrations of life can be healing, even when they're hard. Sitting down to write the eulogy, going through my phone for photos — it was touching in a way I didn't expect.

The night of the service, we found hundreds of pictures in the garage.

I learned things I didn't know.

People at the service didn't know he rode bikes. I knew that. But I didn't know he played acoustic and electric guitar.

People didn't know he flew planes. I knew that. But I didn't know he liked taking photos — and that he had a real eye for composition.

People didn't know he built his own sand buggy. I knew that. But I didn't know the buggy was older than me.

I am genuinely curious about people. Always have been. Over the decades I knew him, I learned things about him that most people didn't, and some of that came through in the eulogy. But standing in that garage, I felt something I wasn't prepared for. Something between wonder and loss. Who was this person I didn't fully know? How come he didn't share more of it?

I'll be honest: there were negative emotions mixed in. Anger, even. A feeling of being a little cheated.

Then I remembered — he had a tough past. There were real reasons he kept certain things close. Maybe he was afraid that pulling out the good memories would bring the hard ones with them. I understood that, even if it stung.

I'm not sharing this to make you feel guilty about your own family's stories. I'm sharing it because I nearly didn't. It felt too soon. Too personal. A friend encouraged me to write it anyway. I hesitated for a long time.

But I decided to send it because it's real. And because it connects directly to something I've heard from people — over and over — when I tell them I coach writers to write their memoirs.

They say: I wish I had done this with my mom. With my dad. Before they passed.

That regret is real. I understand now, more than I did last week, why it weighs so heavily.

Now imagine a different scenario. You have a past you're proud of. A family that loves you and wants to know your stories. And you just can't get yourself to write them down.

That's not a character flaw. That's what happens when no one hands you a structure and tells you it's possible — without an MFA, without a year of uninterrupted sabbatical, without being a capital-W Writer.

Stories don't disappear because people forget them. They disappear because no one sat down and wrote them out.

I built The Story Frame because I almost didn't finish my own stories. For years. Until I created a system that made finishing unavoidable.

Here's how it works.

On March 9th, I'm running The Story Frame Sprint — four days, one hour each, twelve writers at a time. Live sessions, guided writing, real feedback on real drafts.

By the end of Day 1, you'll have your core moment drafted. Three to four hundred words. The heart of your story, on the page, done.

By Day 2, a complete draft. Eight hundred to a thousand words.

By Day 3, a polished story — twelve hundred words — that didn't exist four days before.

Day 4 is the map. Your complete memoir outlined, all thirty chapters. So when the sprint ends, you're not back at zero. You know exactly what comes next.

Four days. One hour each. $297.

Not a course you'll half-finish. A live sprint with eleven other writers who showed up to do the actual work.

Twelve spots. That's it.

Reply to this email and I'll send you details within 24 hours.

Your family is going to want to know this stuff.

Give them something to hold onto.

Happy telling!

-Carlos

P.S. There's an optional Day 5 — Memoir Café — where you'll read your completed story aloud and hear the others in your cohort. It's included free. It's also, I'll be honest, the part people remember longest.