For years I thought taking photos was enough to keep my memories. But I wasn't keeping them. I was piling them up somewhere I found it harder and harder to return to: the bottom of my camera roll.

As an artist, I've always been drawn to the relationship between time and memory; most of my work circles back to it. After university I travelled through different parts of the world and lived abroad for several years. I took hundreds of photographs: of the places, of the people I met, of moments I was certain, while they were happening, I would never forget.

I believed I could always go back to them. Instead, they turned into thousands of files I barely opened. I still recognised the places and the faces, but not always what had happened there, or why I had taken that photo at all. The images were still there. Part of the story wasn't.

I was saving them. But saving is not the same as remembering.

And that started to unsettle me. My photographs could sit there for decades while the stories behind them faded, until all that was left were images without context, something someone scrolls past with a thumb.

Everything shifted the day I asked my mother about the trips she took at university. She remembered the countries. But she couldn't rebuild the journey: which villages she passed through, which route she followed, who she was with, what small things happened along the way. She knew she had taken photographs, but her albums had been buried for years in some box or bag, in an old wardrobe in the garage; she wasn't even sure where. Over the years more things had piled on top, and those albums had become almost impossible to reach.

What struck me wasn't that she didn't know where the photographs were. It was realising that even if we found them, they couldn't give her back everything she had lived. The images had survived. What was missing were the memories that gave them meaning.

Then I understood the same thing could happen to me. I was doing exactly that, just in a different way: my photographs weren't buried in a wardrobe, they were hidden among thousands of files on my phone.

I didn't want to keep photographs. I wanted to keep the stories behind them.

So I started thinking about what I could do with the ones I already had. Not another album, but a book that could also hold the thoughts, the feelings, the small stories and the details that make a moment yours.

Opening a page and finding a photograph next to a train ticket, a stub, a scribbled note, a line about what happened that day. Not just seeing where I had been, but remembering what made it matter.

I wanted a visual diary I could hold, show and reopen years later. A book where the photographs weren't alone, but surrounded by everything that made those memories important. Something I could hand to a friend when they asked "so, how was your trip?", which years later would remind me not only what I lived, but how I lived it.

To turn that idea into something real, I had to learn how to build the book I had in my head. I studied editorial design and layout: testing compositions, combining photographs of different formats, working with space, finding the rhythm of a page.

I also learned to select and sequence images so that together they told a story. Slowly I understood that designing a photobook isn't about arranging beautiful pictures. It's about deciding what you want to remember, and how you want to tell it.

And the further I went, the clearer it became that I wasn't the only one with this problem. We take hundreds of photographs and store them on phones, hard drives, clouds. Taking a photo costs a second. Coming back to it can take years.

That's why I built this: to help other people turn their photographs into stories they can keep, share and look at again.

Because we don't always know which moments will end up mattering. Sometimes it's a big trip. Sometimes it's a house we lived in for a couple of years, a friendship that changes, or a version of ourselves we quietly leave behind.

Henri Cartier-Bresson said photography is putting your head, your eye and your heart on the same line. I think that, with time, a photograph can do something even harder: bring you back, for a second, to a moment you thought you had lost.

We can't stop time, and we can't stop our memory from changing. But we can decide what we want to keep, and how we want to return to it.

That's what I do with my photobooks: help you turn your photographs into something more than stored files. Into memories you can hold, show, share and open again whenever you want.

So think about the photographs sitting on your phone right now. Which ones tell a story you don't want to lose? And what would you need to keep alongside them, so that years from now you could remember not just what you saw, but everything you were living?