There are certain emails you read twice.
Not because you don’t understand them, but because you want to make sure they’re real.
When a reporter from The New York Times reached out asking if I’d share my thoughts on audio guestbooks, my first reaction was gratitude. My second was the question I find myself asking about almost every wedding trend:
What’s really behind it?
Because I don’t think couples are falling in love with vintage telephones.
I think they’re searching for permanence.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.
After planning weddings for nearly two decades, I’ve noticed something interesting. Couples spend months, even years, making thoughtful decisions about every detail of their celebration. The flowers. The menu. The music. The timeline. Every choice matters because every choice helps tell their story.
And yet, years later, the things they treasure most are rarely the things they spent the most time talking about.
It’s hearing your dad laugh.
Your grandmother’s unmistakable voice.
The best man who somehow made everyone cry and laugh in the same minute.
A voice has an incredible ability to transport us. Long after a photograph reminds us what someone looked like, hearing them reminds us exactly who they were.
That’s why I love the idea of an audio guestbook, not because it’s having a moment, but because it creates something that becomes more meaningful with time. It invites people to leave behind a piece of themselves that a future anniversary, a child, or even a grandchild may one day listen to.
That’s hospitality to me.
Not simply creating a beautiful evening, but creating an experience that continues to give something back long after the last guest has gone home.

I’m incredibly grateful to The New York Times for including my perspective in its recent story about audio guestbooks. More than anything, I’m grateful whenever we’re invited into conversations about the future of weddings, because I believe the best celebrations don’t simply reflect what’s popular today, they preserve what will matter for generations.
Sometimes the most meaningful keepsake isn’t something you can hold in your hands. Sometimes it’s simply the sound of someone you love saying your name.
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