Carlos I.

My parents both died of heart attacks. Both of them. Sudden, no chance to say goodbye. A few photos remain, and so many unanswered questions. I know almost nothing about their childhood, and it's too late to ask now. I hardly recognize anyone in their family albums, and I never knew my grandparents. I don't know much about my ancestors at all.

I looked for a way to record and share memories privately, and I didn't find a single solution I could trust. Most of them treat your intimate data like advertising inventory. Talk about a loss online, and funeral-home ads will follow you for weeks. I didn't want a marketing team or investors deciding how people's memories get handled.

So I built Memoira alone, over several months, with no team and no investors. Early users shifted where it was going: someone told me it helped her through a miscarriage; a father regretted not writing down his son's first weeks while they were fresh; a friend wanted to share a bachelor party with only the people who were there. Memoira isn't just about parents and children. It's for anyone with memories worth keeping (happy, hard, or ordinary), shared only with the people you choose.

I built it with 20 years as a cloud architect and engineer, for SMBs, banks, governments, multinationals, and international organizations, between France and Switzerland. Privacy has been in Memoira's DNA from day one. Not a marketing claim added afterward.

While refining Guida, our AI biographer, during tests, something unexpected happened: I enjoyed talking to her, and reading the chapters she drew from our conversations. Other users told me the same thing. That's when I realized I'd found my ikigai.