What I Learned from Recording a Video for My Kids in Case I Die Unexpectedly
It was 11:30 on a Tuesday night, and I was sitting in my car in the driveway, letting the engine tick as it cooled down. I’d just heard that a former coworker—someone my age, healthy, with two kids under ten—had been killed in a car accident that afternoon. I didn’t know him well, but I remember his daughter’s birthday party, the way he’d handed out juice boxes with a deadpan expression. And now he was just gone. The thought sat in my chest like a stone.
I didn’t go inside right away. Instead, I scrolled to the Files app on my phone, found a folder labeled “For Family,” and tapped a video. It was a recording I’d made eighteen months earlier, after a routine doctor’s appointment that had turned into three days of blood tests and a biopsy that came back benign. In the relief of that news, I’d done something I’d been putting off for years. I’d sat on the edge of my bed, propped my phone against a stack of library books, and hit the red button.
The video was four minutes long. It’s not a masterpiece. I started by saying the date and then my kids’ names, which felt ridiculous because they were the only people watching it. I told them I loved them. I told them I was proud of them. And then—because I couldn’t think of anything profound—I told them to please, please floss, and reminded my daughter to take her allergy medication, and asked my son to finish his science fair project without crying this time. I made them promise not to sell the LEGO sets to buy sodas. That part made me laugh.
I stopped the recording feeling both calmer and absurdly embarrassed. I wasn’t a dramatic person. I didn’t like attention. And the whole exercise felt like practicing for a plane crash.
But after hearing about my coworker, I sat in the dark and watched it again. My kids were in pajamas on the screen, too young to sit still for a message like that—I’d recorded it while they were at school. My voice was steadier than I expected. I said, “I’m sorry I can’t be there. That’s the hardest thing. I have so many more things I wanted to show you.” That last line made me cringe on the first watch, but that night it didn’t. That night it just sounded like the truth.
Here’s what I’ve come to understand: a video like that is not a replacement for a parent. It can’t be. It won’t give anyone a hug on a bad day or answer a question that starts with “What would Mom have said?” But it does something real. It gives your kids a time-stamped, physical proof that you existed in the ordinary, clumsy way you did. It lets them hear your voice when their memory has already started to fade the edges of it. And for a child, the fear of losing a parent is often tied to the fear of forgetting them—the voice, the laugh, the weird way you said “come here” with your hands. A recording preserves those details in a way that no photo ever could.
If you’re thinking about making one, do it on a normal day. Don’t wait for a calendar anniversary or a scary diagnosis. Sit down after breakfast, when your hair is a little messy and you’re slightly annoyed about the dishes. That’s the version of you they actually live with. My friend’s coworker made one a few years back for his kids, and the thing they treasured most was that he’d recorded it in the backyard while the sprinkler was running. You could hear the neighbor’s dog barking. It was so ordinary that it hurt.
Practically, here are the things that actually matter if you decide to do this.
First, say their names. Say the date. Kids need facts to anchor their memories to, especially when they’re young. Don’t assume they’ll remember what they were doing in the spring of 2031. Tell them you’re at the kitchen table, that it’s raining outside, that you just got back from the grocery store. That gives them something firm to hold on to.
Second, say something specific about who they are. Not just “you’re so smart” or “you’re so kind.” Say, “You always remember people’s favorite flavors, and you leave notes in my backpack,” or “You’re the one who still asks for a hug when everyone else is ashamed of it.” That’s what they’ll carry. General praise fades; specific observations stay.
Third—and this is the part most people don’t think about—give them a little freedom. It’s tempting to fill the recording with warnings and reminders. I did. But you want to leave room for them to grow. Tell them, “I don’t know who you are when you’re watching this, but I trust the person you’re becoming.” That’s a gift to an eighteen-year-old watching a video their parent made when they were six.
Also, think about age. A recording made for a four-year-old won’t land the same when they’re fifteen. If you have young kids, it’s worth re-recording every few years. You can keep the old ones—they’ll be precious later—but add new ones as they change. My brother lost his dad at twelve. The only video he had was from when he was four, his dad crouching down and talking in a cartoon voice. He loved it, but he wished he had one of his dad as a middle-aged man, worn out and real, so he could see what he actually looked like when he talked to him about school.
Storage is practical but important. Don’t keep the video only on your phone. Put it in a place someone can find it: an external drive in a drawer, a folder in the cloud you’ve told your partner or a trusted sibling about. Name it something clear, not “MomVideoFinal.” And check every six months or so to make sure it still opens. I lost a whole folder of childhood photos when my old laptop died; I don’t want that to happen to this.
Finally, if recording video feels too strange, write a letter instead. Or type a note. Or leave a voicemail. I have a friend who recorded herself reading a chapter book aloud, just thirty minutes of a chapter and then she said goodnight. Her daughter was eight and had asthma; there were years where she’d fall asleep to that recording. It didn’t have to be a formal message. It just had to be her.
I still haven’t told my kids that the video exists. I don’t want it to hang over their heads, this ominous object in the cloud. They’re still at an age where death is an abstract thing—they duck behind furniture when they hear the word. But the other night, my daughter asked me to tell her about the time our dog got stuck under the porch. I told the story, and she repeated a phrase back to me, the exact way I said it. That’s when I remembered the video, sitting in its folder. I thought about the morning I might record another one, maybe after the birthday this spring. The kids will be older. They’ll understand more.
That’s the thing about it—it’s not a goodbye you can do once. It’s an ongoing, awkward, deeply human effort to make yourself present in a future you might not see. The video I have now is already outdated. My son’s voice dropped. My daughter’s lost two teeth. But I’m glad it’s there, even if I never watch it again until I need to. It’s not a solution. It’s just a way of leaving a pat on the mattress, a little warm spot you find after your parent’s already gone. Doesn’t fix anything. But it reminds you they were there.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » What I Learned from Recording a Video for My Kids in Case I Die Unexpectedly