That’s difficult to read, but more difficult to imagine someone lived like that. But it’s a true story, written by Rachel Seamons, my great-great grandmother. It’s one paragraph in a handwritten life history she scrawled in pencil on a dozen sheets of thin paper more than 150 years ago.

Fortunately for her family, Rachel was one of those people who believed in writing her life history. In simple words she recorded the world in which she grew up, married and raised her family. Because of her writings, her family has great insight not only into her life but also the life of her son (my great-grandfather) and his son (my grandfather). Her words captured for future generations a world that would have otherwise been lost.

I help people write their life histories. But until recently, I had not written mine. My children rectified that situation by gifting me access to an online program that gives me weekly writing prompts to write my own history (dozens of these programs exist). In the next year, a week at a time, I will write my life history.

The experience is surprisingly fulfilling. I’m convinced more than ever that each of us should write our story — if not for ourselves, then for our families. We don’t understand how valuable our story is until we’re scratching around for tidbits of information of an ancestor who did not record anything for us.

When I urge someone to do this, the flood of excuses pours out. I do understand. We are all busy people. Writing the stories of our lives seems like a good idea — if and when we get the time. But there is no time to “get.” The only time we have to write is what we appoint to that specific purpose. So prioritizing the time to write is actually the most challenging part.

When I start into my own list of why I’m not writing, I think of Rachel — a woman raised in poverty, shipped off to a work house because her family couldn’t feed her, a roof over her head and meager food to eat in return for horrific work in terrible conditions.

She wrote her life history later, but even then it was no picnic. Just finding paper on which she could write her flowing script was a challenge. But she did it.

Not surprisingly, so did her son, and his son, and his son — who was my father. Dad wrote the final 26 years of his life in a dozen volumes of journals. Every word of his hand-printed accounts is uniquely treasured by his family.

I don’t really want the facts and figures of my ancestors — the info I can find online. I want what I cannot find online — the thoughts they had, the emotions they felt, the dreams they harbored, the insights they developed, the wisdom they gathered. If they didn’t write it down, then no one can know how they felt about being a parent, their feelings about the history they lived through, or how they managed their relationship with Heaven. We’ll never know what went on in their heads and hearts if they didn’t write it down.

Sadly, our children and their children will never know what goes on in our heads and hearts if we don’t write it down.

We don’t work in deplorable conditions at a shoe factory. We do live in a time in the world’s history when so much is happening so fast that it often feels threatening or overwhelming or out of control. But there’s actually no better time to write than when we’re stretched and challenged. These times produce the most intriguing stories.

Each of us face daily trials, deal with them and make something of our lives while thoughts flow through our minds, insights develop and wisdom grows. Those are the things our families will want to know, along with how we viewed our world and handled its challenges.

No one can write your life history better than you can. And you don’t want anyone else to try. Start with one paragraph and, in time, discover the most intriguing person you’ll ever know.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.