I’ve always been the one in the family who asks about the great-grandparents no one remembers. The one who pulls over for historical markers, gets lost in old newspaper clippings, and secretly prefers a vintage map over GPS. Some people collect souvenirs when they travel—I like to collect stories.

Looking back, it probably started with Mr. Matlack, my senior year history teacher. He had this way of making history feel real—not just names and dates to memorize, but people and choices and ripples that reached all the way to now. His own hands-on Native American digs and the books he wrote about them fascinated me. Before that, there was the elementary school family tree project, where I sat with my dad in his chair, scribbling names and realizing there was a whole web of lives behind mine. It hooked me.

And over time, that spark turned into a full-blown habit: joining the local historical society, diving into genealogy, flipping through old letters and photos like they’re treasure maps... even creating a local history podcast with a sweet friend who's just as much of a history lover as me. It’s not just a hobby—it’s part of how I make sense of the world.

Lately, with everything life’s thrown my way—grief, caregiving, uncertainty—I’ve found myself leaning into history even more. Not the textbook kind. The handwritten kind. The “why did they save this?” kind. The kind that reminds me where I come from and helps me hold onto a little more peace when everything around me feels chaotic.

There’s something comforting about remembering we’re not the first ones to walk through hard seasons. People before us have felt lost, hopeful, overwhelmed… and somehow, knowing their stories makes it easier to keep going with mine.

Time gives us perspective—and lately I’ve been borrowing that perspective from other people's pasts, too.

It’s one thing to look back on your own life and see how things played out. But it’s something else entirely to trace your family line back through generations and realize just how much they endured—and still managed to keep going.

Genealogy has given me more than a list of names; it’s given me a deep, unshakable sense of connection. When I read stories of my ancestors losing loved ones, starting over in unfamiliar places, or quietly surviving personal heartbreaks, I see echoes of my own life. And I think: If they could live through that... I can live through this.

Sometimes it’s the smallest thing—a scribbled date on the back of a photo, a name in a census record—that stops me in my tracks. Little threads that tug me closer to people I’ve never met but somehow still know. It almost makes me feel nostalgic for a time I never personally knew. 

One of my most treasured keepsakes is a stone from the ruins of a home built by my 3x great-grandfather in a remote corner of Sweden. A genealogist friend hiked out to the site and brought it to the U.S. for me. I framed it with some photos and gave it to my dad. When he passed, it came back to me.

It’s just a rock, technically. But to me, it’s a tangible reminder that I’m part of something much bigger... and lasting. 

Even more powerful than the stone is the story. My 3x great-grandfather’s life was included in a book—in his own words and with a sketch of him by the author. Reading his account feels like sitting across from him, listening to him describe his hardships and heartbreaks. He went through more than most, but there’s not a bitter note in his voice. Just honesty, strength, and a quiet kind of hope. His last remark in the book translates to something like "But you can't always live in a rose garden." 

They didn’t have wellness apps, therapy podcasts, or Pinterest boards. But they knew how to endure. How to rebuild. How to find joy in small things.

Reading their stories has helped me slow down and appreciate simplicity in my own life. Their lives weren’t perfect, but they were real—and full of lessons we’d do well to remember.

I don’t think I’d appreciate that kind of simplicity or resilience if I hadn’t spent time learning where I came from. There’s something humbling about realizing that every generation before us made do with far less… and still managed to build lives of purpose and strength.

When things get hard now, I remind myself: 

Holding space for the past doesn’t keep me stuck there—it anchors me. Gives me perspective. Offers wisdom. And maybe, just maybe, it will help me figure out how to keep going when everything that's happening has me feeling a little unanchored at times.

I think more of us could benefit from pausing to look back. People always say we’re doomed to repeat the history we don’t learn from—but we can’t learn from it if we’re too busy rushing forward.

So if you’re feeling disconnected or unsure where you come from, I’ll say this: start digging. Research your family tree if you can. (I'm part of a group at the Curwensville Historical Society who, for a donation, helps folks build out their own family trees.) 

And if you can't do that, find a moment in time, a story, or a culture that calls to you. There’s often a reason why. Let that curiosity guide you.

Maybe we don’t always need to move on to move forward. Sometimes, looking back is exactly what helps us stay steady.

Here’s to finding what works (and letting go of what doesn’t),

AJ