Why I Built Eternity

My father had a finished law degree in Bosnia. He was 26 years old, newly married, and the war had started. He and my mother fled to Germany in 1992 with almost nothing. When they arrived, nobody cared about his law degree. He got a job cleaning at an Altersheim, an elderly care home. He did that for years, just to be allowed to stay.

My mother was a doctor in Bosnia. A real, fully qualified doctor. In Germany she was nobody. She started as a cleaning lady. Then she became a doctor's office assistant. Then a pharmaceutical sales rep, visiting the same kinds of doctors she used to be. It took her three or four more years of re-specialization before Germany finally recognized her medical degree. Now she's had her own practice for over a decade, with reviews patients actually write about.

That took almost twenty years. From doctor to cleaning lady to doctor again. I was born in 1993, one year after they arrived. I grew up watching that whole rebuild happen.

The morning wedding in Doboj

My parents were the first couple to marry in Doboj during the war. It wasn't romantic. It was a quick morning ceremony, done specifically so they could flee the country together. After the ceremony, they went to hide in my grandmother's apartment. There was a small celebration, whatever that means during a war.

I think about that sometimes. Getting married not because you planned a wedding, but because it's the only way to stay together while running.

They never told me that story like it was tragic. It was just what happened. That's how most family stories work. The people who lived through them don't realize how extraordinary they are.

The obelisk in the park

My great-grandfather on my father's side was a Partizan. A freedom fighter in Bosnia during World War II, fighting against the Nazis. He was caught and executed.

In Doboj, in the center of the park, there's a massive white obelisk. It has the names of every fallen Partizan hero from that region carved into it. His name is on it. I've stood in front of it.

That's something I know because my father told me. His father told him. If nobody had said it out loud, I'd walk past that obelisk and it would just be a monument to strangers.

All four of my grandparents have passed away now. Every story that didn't get told is gone.

Growing up between two countries

We went to Bosnia every summer and every winter holiday. It was non-negotiable. Those trips were where the stories lived.

On weekends at home in Germany, my family would often end up watching old ex-Yugoslavia movies together. That was the trigger. Someone would recognize an actor, or a scene would remind them of something, and suddenly we'd be in a two-hour family story session. My father talking about his childhood, my mother remembering her university years, my grandparents filling in the older layers.

I loved those sessions. I didn't record a single one.

Nobody does. You assume you'll hear it again. You assume the person will always be there to tell it. Then one day they're not, and you realize you're holding fragments. A name here, a detail there, the feeling of a story without the actual words.

Seven years of wanting to build this

I've had the idea for Eternity for over seven years. The problem was always the same: I have a finance and management degree, not a computer science one. I couldn't build it.

I tried to solve the problem other ways. I told my father many times that he should write a biography. He always agreed. He never started. It takes too much time, too much discipline, too much sitting alone with a blank page. And honestly, my father is a talker, not a writer. The stories come alive when he's speaking, not when he's typing.

That's the key insight behind Eternity. You don't write anything. You just sit down and talk.

Record a story for your daughter. Record a memory about your grandmother. Record what you remember about that summer in 1987. The app gives you prompts, you hit record, and you speak.

What changed

AI changed. Specifically, the kind of AI that lets a non-technical person actually build software. I built Eternity with a team of AI expert collaborators: a UX designer, visual design lead, product strategist, marketing team, even an astronomy consultant for the star visualizations. Every expert conversation, every design decision, every line of code. One person and a team of AI agents working together.

Three years ago this would have been impossible. I'd still be sitting on the idea, telling people about it at dinner parties, wishing I could code.

What Eternity actually is

Every family member becomes a star. Your family tree becomes a constellation in the night sky.

Living stars pulse gently. Deceased stars glow steady, surrounded by cool planetary nebulae. Tap a star and you see that person's page: their recordings, their photos, their stories. The whole thing looks like you're holding a piece of the universe that belongs to your family.

The feature I'm most proud of is proxy recording. Most memory apps only let living people record their own stories. But what about the people who are already gone? With Eternity, you can record a story about someone. Your mother can record what she remembers about her grandmother. You can record what your grandfather told you about his father, the Partizan.

The stories don't have to come from the person themselves. They just have to come from someone who remembers.

My brother's baby

My younger brother just had a baby. March 3rd, 2026. Watching that happen made everything click into sharper focus.

That baby will never meet our grandparents. She won't hear my grandmother's voice. She won't know the stories unless someone records them. Right now, the only people who can do that are my parents, my brother, and me. The window is open but it won't stay open.

I'm getting married soon. Then, hopefully, a baby of my own. My parents are healthy, thankfully. But I've already lost all four grandparents, and every story I didn't capture is a story my children will never hear.

Not all family stories are as dramatic as a wartime wedding or a great-grandfather's name on a monument. But they exist. Every family has them. The recipe your grandmother made without measuring anything. The way your father met your mother. The apartment they lived in before you were born. The name of the dog they had when they were twelve.

Those details feel small until the person who holds them is gone. Then they feel enormous.

Why I'm telling you this

I didn't build Eternity because I saw a gap in the market. I built it because I have stories I'm terrified of losing, and I know you do too.

If you're reading this and your parents are still alive, here's what I want you to do. Not download my app. Not sign up for anything. Just call them. Today. Ask them something you've never asked before.

Ask your mother what her grandmother's kitchen smelled like. Ask your father about the first apartment he ever lived in on his own. Ask them how they met, but the real version, not the polished one they tell at parties.

Then actually listen. And if you can, hit record on your phone. Even a voice memo is something. Even a two-minute answer to one question is a story that now exists outside of one person's memory.

The window closes without warning. I know because mine already closed on four people I loved.

Don't let it close on yours.