I never expected to have a bedazzled, six-foot sailfish hanging on my living room wall.
Then again, I never expected to lose my father so early in my life.
So the fish stays.
In all its beautiful, hideous glory, it hangs there as a monument to one of the funniest days my family ever spent together. Every time I walk past it, I’m instantly transported back to Hawaii when I was sixteen; a vacation full of laughter, chaos, mild trauma, and an astonishing amount of vomit.
My father decided we should all go deep-sea fishing.
What could possibly go wrong? As it turned out…quite a lot.
My mother became spectacularly seasick within minutes of leaving the harbor. Yet somehow, while repeatedly leaning over the side of the boat to surrender her breakfast to the Pacific Ocean, she was also catching more fish than everyone else onboard.
Fish after fish after fish. She was absolutely crushing the competition. Her stomach, however, was not.
My brother couldn’t stop laughing. My father thought the whole thing was magnificent.
Then Dad hooked a massive sailfish.
Hauling it onto the boat felt like a sensory assault of blood, fish guts, saltwater, diesel fuel, and seasickness. By the time we reached shore, my mom and I were so dehydrated that we disappeared straight to our hotel room while my father and brother stayed behind, proudly posing for pictures beside the day’s greatest prize.
Somewhere in that post-fishing euphoria, they were convinced to buy a replica mount of the sailfish.
Weeks later, it arrived to my mother’s surprise!
Except it was the wrong size. Naturally, the men in the family decided that the five-foot version simply wouldn’t do. They upgraded.
Which is how my parents ended up with not one, but TWO enormous, aggressively ugly sailfish hanging in their home.
My mother spent years trying to hide them. One eventually found its way into the garage. The other was banished to a library that no one entered unless absolutely necessary.
But every time one of us stumbled across those ridiculous fish, the same thing happened.
Someone laughed. Someone rolled their eyes. Someone retold the story. The fish weren’t decorations anymore. They had become part of our family’s mythology.
Then my father died.
Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Far too soon.
And those dreadful fish became surprisingly tender. They’re still hideous. There isn’t enough nostalgia in the world to make me call them beautiful. But after losing him, I wanted one in my own home.
Not because I needed a fish.
Because I needed the story.
Today, when I look at that ridiculous sailfish hanging on my wall, I don’t just remember Hawaii. I remember my dad. I hear my brother laughing. I see my mother simultaneously winning a fishing competition while throwing up over the side of a boat.
For a moment, they’re all with me again.
Even though I haven’t witnessed my friends hanging the world’s ugliest souvenirs on their walls, it turns out others are affected by their trip memories like I am; I suppose the entire souvenir market is based on capturing nostalgia as it develops. And as I tried to sort out why I need an impractical, ugly fish hanging on my wall, I found the science behind these feelings is very real.
Building an Emotional Savings Account
Neuroscientists have found that recalling joyful autobiographical memories can reduce the body’s stress response, including lowering cortisol, our primary stress hormone. Other researchers have shown that simply reminiscing about a vacation can restore energy, improve mood, and provide many of the same psychological benefits long after the suitcase has been unpacked. In other words, the trip eventually ends, but the emotional resource it creates doesn’t.
I’ve come to think of those memories as an emotional savings account.
We spend years contributing to retirement plans, college funds, investment portfolios, and trusts because we want the people we love to be secure after we’re gone. Those things matter. But what if one of the greatest inheritances we can leave our children isn’t measured in dollars?
What if it’s measured in stories, in inside jokes, in the annual camping trip, the road trip, the family vacation where everything went wrong. Trips’ memories become part of family folklore.
Barbara Fredrickson’s research suggests we may be building another kind of wealth every time we gather around a campfire, laugh until we cry on a family vacation, wander through a place we’ve never seen before, or share an unforgettable meal together. Those moments don’t disappear when the calendar turns. They broaden who we become and slowly build reserves of joy, connection, resilience, and identity that remain available long after the trip is over. Years later, when life inevitably asks more of us than we think we can give, we don’t just withdraw money from a savings account. We withdraw stories. We withdraw laughter. We withdraw moments that remind us who we are and who we have loved.
My dad loved to travel, and he loved that I loved to travel. Now, years after losing him, I realize that’s exactly what he was doing: building my emotional savings account.
My daughter never had the chance to know her grandfather.
But she knows the fish.
She knows the story.
She knows how hard we laugh every time we tell it.
And someday, she’ll tell it to someone else.
The older I get, the more I realize that while money can help us weather financial storms, memories help us weather emotional ones.
So yes, save for retirement. Build the college fund. Protect the future. But don’t forget to invest in your family’s memory bank, too.
Take the trip.
Say yes to the adventure.
Laugh through the inconvenience.
Embrace the chaos.
Say yes to the detour.
This is the most precious wealth you leave behind.
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About the Author
Katherine Redington is Vice President of Social Impact Journeys and Business Development at Elevate Destinations. She has worked on more than 400 community-based journeys and oversees institutional travel for nonprofit organizations, including donor trips, impact investing journeys, board retreats, political will journeys, and charity challenges.
