One recent sunny winter morning...

while sitting across from a much-loved friend and neighbour, I found myself fondly listening and sharing stories of the past, which we often do.

We shared stories about family.
Stories about recipes.
Stories about people long gone but still remembered.
And somewhere between the coffee and the conversation, a thought quietly surfaced.
I had spent much of my life sitting at tables listening to stories.

I told her about my Sotto Studio journal and she told me about something she was working on — a nostalgic recipe book she was creating for her family. Not just the recipes themselves, but the stories behind them. The memories. The people. The moments that gave them meaning.

Each recipe carried a story of its own. A collection of memories she could one day pass on to her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

As we spoke, I found myself looking back with new appreciation.

Growing up, I had been exposed to a humble and grounding privilege that many people may not have experienced.

I had been brought up in a family of storytellers.

Throughout my life, I had sat around many tables, sharing and listening to stories that connected one generation to the next — something deeply meaningful that I will always cherish.

As a child, I listened to my Nanna tell stories...

about family, neighbours, and the people she loved.

I would hear my Pop would share many stories and 'yarns' about people and events from years gone by. People I had never met, yet somehow felt connected to.

At Christmas gatherings, my aunties and uncles would gather around tables and retell family moments that had become part of our shared history... one story would spark another... Laughter would ripple around the room as memories were dusted off and shared once more.

Sitting around these tables, I would hear stories about past struggles, funny moments and everyday happenings that seemed completely ordinary at first glance.
Everything seemed to have a story… and hold a heartwarming memory.

Only later have I come to realise that perhaps I had been part of something more special and precious, than I understood at the time.

We remembered. We reflected.
We laughed. We told stories.

Storytelling.. so deeply woven into our family, that even today Mum and I will sit together on the lounge with a cup of tea, or talk on the phone, reminiscing about people, moments and stories from the past.

These moments were heartwarming...

but more importantly, those stories were doing something quietly important.

They were teaching me that people are far more interesting than they first appear, that every person carries a history we cannot see — a lifetime of experiences, lessons, joys, mistakes, heartbreaks and triumphs. They were teaching me that meaning often hides inside ordinary moments if we take the time to listen.

Through those stories, I learned that a meaningful life is often found in kindness, community, shared meals and family memories.
Without ever intending to, they were shaping the way I viewed life and the world around me.

And, most of all, they taught me that stories matter... because every story holds meaning.

Sometimes it is a lesson learned through hardship.
Sometimes it is a glimpse into a life very different from our own.
Sometimes it is a reminder of who we once were.
Sometimes it becomes part of the way we see the world, quietly shaping us long after the story itself has been told.

And sometimes it is simply a moment held in time, waiting to be remembered.

As I've grown older..

I have found myself drawn to people who carry the perspective that only time and life experience can provide.

In every day life I've noticed how many people rush through life without taking the time to hear the stories around them. In a world that often celebrates progress, speed and what comes next,

I believe some of the most valuable lessons I have learned have actually come quietly

from people who had already lived through life.
Lived through seasons we have not yet experienced.
Navigated grief, change, uncertainty, love, disappointment, joy and resilience.
Made mistakes, learned lessons and gathered wisdom that no textbook can teach.

Often that wisdom doesn't arrive as advice…. it arrives as a story.

A story about a difficult time.
A story about a great love.
A story about a loss.
A story about family.
A story behind a recipe.

A story about a choice they would make differently.

A story about a choice they would make exactly the same.

A story about a life.

They are offering us a piece of themselves.

Perhaps that's why I have always been drawn to listening.

I genuinely love hearing about people's lives.

I love hearing about their grandparents, their childhood homes, the traditions they carry forward, the adventures they have lived through, and the memories they still treasure.

Every story revealing something.
Every story holding meaning.
Every story connecting us.

As I sat drinking coffee that afternoon, another thought quietly arrived.

For years, I have been the listener...
The one sitting at the table, soaking up stories from those who came before me.

Yet somewhere along the way, something changed...

Without even noticing, I had begun writing my own…

The memories of my Nanna.
The lessons gathered through difficult seasons.
The people I have met.
The places I have wandered.
The small moments that have stayed with me long after they happened.

Without ever intending to, I had begun collecting stories too.

And then it struck me…

I was becoming the storyteller.

For years I sat and listened while others shared their memories. Now I find myself writing my own. Through these journal entries, I am preserving moments, reflections, lessons and memories that might otherwise be forgotten.

That wasn't part of some grand plan.
It happened naturally.
One story at a time.

•••
Perhaps that is what storytelling has always been.

Simply one person sharing
something meaningful with another.

One generation tells their stories to the next.
The listener becomes the storyteller.
The storyteller becomes a memory.
And the stories continue their journey.
•••

And in a world that often feels rushed,
storytelling invites us to slow down.

To listen... to remember... to learn... to connect...

And maybe that's why I continue to be drawn to it.

Because some of the greatest gifts
I have ever received were not things at all...
they were stories...

These days, when I sit down to write, I often think about all the people whose stories shaped me.

Perhaps that is why I write.

To honour the ordinary moments that become extraordinary when we take the time to remember them.

Perhaps, without ever planning it, I am simply continuing a tradition that began long before me.

A little girl sitting at her Nanna's table.

Listening carefully.

Not yet knowing that one day she would become the storyteller.

For a long time, I thought stories were something passed from one generation to the next within a family.

Yet perhaps stories have their own way of travelling.

Not every story finds its way through the paths we expect.

...but perhaps stories have a way of finding where they need to go.

Maybe the true value of a story is not who it belongs to, but who it reaches — and in that moment..

..perhaps it has found
exactly where it was meant to be..

'Stories connect us.. shape us.. stay with us..'