인스타그램 스토리 저장

There’s something special about when someone sits down and opens their whole heart to you.

Manhar Dada did that from the moment we first spoke. 87 years of life carried quietly and shared openly.

There are stories you hear that don’t just move you, they shift the way you think and the way you view life.
You see things differently and have a yearning to be an even better version of who you are today.

The olive tree is a symbol of peace, endurance and legacy. It grows slowly, stubbornly, and across generations...much like the stories of the people we love most.

I gave one to Manhar Dada. Because his story deserves to outlast all of us.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Wait for slide 8 🙏🏾

I drove home from this Open Journal in silence.

Not because I was sad. Because I needed to sit with what I’d just heard. Five hours with a man who lost everything - repeatedly -and somehow never lost himself. He was eighteen when his father died. He went to work the next morning. Not because he wasn’t broken. Because five siblings needed him!! Exactly a year later, to the day, he lost his sister.

That kind of life doesn’t shout or ask for recognition.... It just keeps going, quietly, for decades, and the people closest to it often don’t know the half of it.

That’s what stayed with me most... How much is carried in silence by the people we love most. How little we ask. How much we assume there will be time. There won’t always be time.

If there’s someone in your life whose story deserves to be heard, drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

Some people carry their whole life in a few quiet sentences.

Bishnu talked about honesty. About faith. About earning everything through hard work and having nothing to be ashamed of.

It got me thinking about how often we measure what we’ve built by what other people can see. Bishnu wasn’t doing that. He was measuring it by something quieter. Something internal.

I’m still figuring that one out. How much of my self worth is genuinely mine, and how much of it is just
borrowed from other people’s opinions??

I want to invite you to reflect. What are you most proud of…and is it actually yours to own?

The Open Journal.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count.

Someone books The Open Journal as a gift…For their mother. Their father. A grandparent whose world existed long before they arrived in it.

They think they’re giving something.

Then the shoot day comes. The camera rolls And the person on film stops performing and starts being. They talk about the year everything changed. The people they lost. The things they carried alone for decades. Words spoken out loud for the very first time.

And somewhere in that room, the gift reverses.
What you gave them becomes something they’re giving back. To you. To your children. To every generation that comes after.

Their voice. Their story. Preserved.

This is what The Open Journal does.

There’s a running joke that ‘If pri interviews you, you’ll end up in tears’

But it’s never a bad kind…

Because there’s a version of your story you’ve never said out loud. Not because it isn’t true…but because nobody created the space for it.

I used to wonder why people cried in our sessions. Then I realisedthat it’s often the first time they’d been asked something that actually mattered.

The right question changes everything.
That’s what The Open Journal builds
around. Every single time.

This is how it works

Meet Tejal’s Baa....She passed away two years ago.

This clip still has me. Completely unfiltered, completely her own person, and genuinely one of the funniest people I’ve had in front of a camera.

But every time I watch it back, it’s not just the laughs I notice. It’s the way her and Tejal look at each other. That warmth. That familiarity. The kind of love that doesn’t perform... it just exists.

On film, she’s exactly as she was. And now Tej and the family have that forever.

If you have someone in your life you’d love to do an Open Journal Film with, message me. These are the things worth keeping.

The most fascinating thing about asking someone to reflect on their life, is where they end up taking you.

We started talking about love. But what unfolded was something I wasn’t prepared for.

She felt her nani didn’t just leave this world....she left her someone.

There’s a moment where you stop seeing them as just your mum, your dad, your grandparent...and start seeing them as someone who lived an entire life before you knew their name.

Their stories deserve more than a card or a gift voucher.

They deserve a film.

The Open Journal creates documentary films for the people you love most. Their voice, their stories, the moments that made them, captured the way they deserve.

You think you’re giving them a gift. But once they start talking, they become the gift. For everyone who loves them. Forever.

🎬 Find out more! Link in bio. Or send this to someone who needs to see it.and start seeing them as someone who lived an entire life before you knew their name.

Some conversations don't feel like turning points when they happen. But you spend the rest of your life realising they were.

Towards the end of his Open Journal, I asked Maheshbhai what he would want his grandchildren to know.

He didn't reach for wisdom. He went back to a coffee in Nairobi, a year before his father passed away.
His dad looked at him and said: "I've got faith in you. No matter what, you look after your sisters."

One sentence. And Maheshbhai spent a lifetime trying to live up to it.

"The motto in life is, how can I be helpful to others?"

You don’t have the time you think you have.

Over the last 48 hours I’ve been completely overwhelmed -in the best way. The response to that video has been incredible. But amongst all the bookings and the kind words, there’s been a theme in my messages that I can’t stop thinking about.

Person after person telling me they wish they had done an Open Journal with someone they’ve now lost. A parent. A grandparent. Someone they thought they had more time with.

I made a choice to sit my mum down with a camera and take her through my process. Those recordings are now the most important thing I own. My daughter knows her grandmother because of them.

Not everyone makes that choice. And reading these messages...I understand why that haunts people.

The Open Journal exists because of that. So that the people you love are captured the way they deserve - their voice, their beliefs, their story - before life moves on.

If someone came to mind reading this, don’t sit on it. Drop me a message. I’d love to have a chat.

We’ve been quiet for a few years. But this year felt like the right time to bring back something that means a lot to me.

Too many people carry stories that never get told. Voices that go unheard. And the people who love them are left with whatever they can piece together after the fact.

The Open Journal makes documentary films of the people you love most…capturing who they really are, in their own words, the way they deserve to be known.

Not your life story. Your life’s meaning.

openjournal.studio

Self belief alone
Starts with myself
So if my self believes,
I only need my help- @jcharizma .
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