Stories captivated me long before I began teaching memoir writing. As a kid, I recall the family parties at which my parents, grandparents, and other relatives would gather in the kitchen. I’d sit on the threshold listening to them talk and laugh. Their laughter caught my attention. My parents weren’t funny people. At home, they’d argue a lot. But here in my grandparents’ kitchen, they laughed.

I didn’t always understand the stories they were telling, but I could see that they enjoyed themselves. They’re must be something special about telling stories, I thought. One day, I said, I will find that something “special”.

While I had always wanted to be a writer, I ended up becoming a childcare worker, working with troubled teens and their families. A big part of my job was to listen to their stories, stories they told themselves about each other, stories they told to explain why they were the way they were. A lot of these stories were sad, a few were funny, but they all revealed something that drew me in and made me want to know more. I also realized that these stories needed a safe space to come forth.

After nearly ten years of listening and helping my clients make sense of their stories, I returned to university to follow my passion for literature and creative writing. I studied not only the great works of literature, but continued to focus on the everyday stories people carry with them—the experiences that shape who we become, the turning points that quietly redirect our lives. My academic work eventually led me to earn a Ph.D. in English Literature with a specialization in autobiographical writing. I had been interested in how people re-invented themselves in their writing when thrust into new spaces or environments. 

What interested me most was not simply literature itself. It was the deeper question behind it: How do people make sense of their lives through story? And how does the space or environment in which they tell make a difference to the story?

Over the years my work moved through several fields—education, counselling, and storytelling.

In each of these settings, I found myself drawn to the same experience: People wanted to tell their stories, but they needed safe containers to do that.

If you’ve read this far, you will have noticed that my service is based on the concept of a place–a studio–rather than focused on my personality at a writer, storyteller, or teacher. That seems to be at odds with personality-driven coaching that permeates the memoir-writing community. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m drawn to personality as much as anyone. In fact, I’ve paid for the services of a well-known, charismatic, and successful memoir coach and writer. But I decided to focus on the idea of a studio, a space that you could come to find the safety and the tools to help your writing practice.

The concept was inspired by my memories of being an art student during my university days. I loved going into the art studio every chance I got. I loved that the tools I needed to paint were there and, if I required guidance, I could consult with my teachers, both of whom were very well-known artists in their own right. But it wasn’t their fame that drew me to the studio; it was the space itself. It felt safe, inviting, and a hub of creativity. It provided the kind of environment that drew out the best in me. That’s what I wanted to create for others.

The stories I hear in the Memoir Studio vary. Sometimes they are stories of joy. Sometimes they’re stories of difficulty or loss. Often they are simply the stories of an ordinary life that has unfolded over many years. But again and again I’ve seen how difficult it can be for people to begin. They feel overwhelmed by their memories, or they believe their lives are somehow not “important enough” to write about.

What I eventually came to understand is that most people do not struggle because they lack stories. They struggle because they lack a clear and supportive way to approach them. I wanted to create a safe space where they could receive the support and the resources that would help them.

A life contains thousands of experiences, but meaningful stories usually begin with something much smaller: a single moment, a childhood memory, a conversation that changed everything, or a day that revealed something essential about who we are. When people begin there, the writing becomes possible.

Memoir Studio grew from this realization. I wanted to create a place where people could explore their life stories without feeling overwhelmed by 

the scale of a memoir. I wanted it to be a place where they could begin with small, meaningful moments.

Through guided reflection, prompts, and simple storytelling techniques, writers who come to the Studio gradually discover the stories that shaped their lives. Often, those stories grow into something larger:

Each one becomes a way to preserve memory and meaning.

After many years of working with memoir writers, I’ve come to believe something quite simple: that every life contains stories worth telling, not because every life is dramatic or extraordinary—but because the ordinary experiences of a life often hold the deepest meaning.

When people begin to write their stories in a safe, supportive environment, something remarkable happens. They start to see their lives more clearly and discover patterns they hadn’t noticed before. In time, they find a deeper appreciation for the journey they’ve lived.

I believe that we are all storytellers. We all have stories to tell. You don’t have to be a larger-than-life personality or professional “writer” to tell yours. You just need the willingness to show up and start telling them–even if it’s only two pages at a time.

Today, through Memoir Studio, I guide writers who want to explore their memories, shape them into stories, and preserve them for the future. Some of those writers go on to publish memoirs; others create collections of personal stories for family and friends. But in every case, the work begins the same way–with one memory. Because once that first story appears, the rest of life begins to reveal itself.

Perhaps, I created the Memoir Studio as a way of re-creating my grandparents’ kitchen from my childhood. If so, I hope it will also be a place of laughter and tears, a place where everyone supports one another and encourages each other to tell their stories. I’ll provide the structure and resources; you bring yourself and a willingness to cross the threshold.