Sep 23, 2026 · 39 min · 13 segments
Today we’re excited to share a special episode of Reaching Out, a new podcast from Futuro and KCRW. Hailed by Ira Glass as the “best new show I’ve…
Brian ReedHostFuturo.
On February 15th, 2020, Connor calls you to ask if you want to look for your birth father.
You do not record this conversation.
This is notable, if only because so much of your life has been recorded.
Moments far less consequential than this.
You're on Connor's fourth birthday.
Hand me a rubber nose.
Can you guys say that?
Say, "Hand me a rubber nose."
A school performance.
You play a scared rabbit.
Your only line-
Don't worry.
We'll just go back the way we came.
A house party when you were 16, when you first began to record yourself.
There are a few people, and I, um, talk to them about whatever I want to talk about.
And since it's about, like, me, and it's about things I do, like, I figure I should record this.
These records were made because you or someone else thought the moment was worth keeping.
A sort of prescient act, one that assumes that you might want to return, that what is captured here may hold some significance, that what is remembered may cohere somehow with the story of your life as you are meant to understand it.
There is a price for what we choose to remember and what we choose to forget, for the story we make of it.
If you had known how this would all turn out, maybe you would have recorded everything.
Or if you'd known the cost, maybe you would not have recorded anything at all.
Futuro.
On February 15th, 2020, Connor calls you to ask if you want to look for your birth father.
You do not record this conversation.
This is notable, if only because so much of your life has been recorded.
Moments far less consequential than this.
You're on Connor's fourth birthday.
Hand me a rubber nose.
Can you guys say that?
Say, "Hand me a rubber nose."
A school performance.
You play a scared rabbit.
Your only line-
Don't worry.
We'll just go back the way we came.
A house party when you were 16, when you first began to record yourself.
There are a few people, and I, um, talk to them about whatever I want to talk about.
And since it's about, like, me, and it's about things I do, like, I figure I should record this.
These records were made because you or someone else thought the moment was worth keeping.
A sort of prescient act, one that assumes that you might want to return, that what is captured here may hold some significance, that what is remembered may cohere somehow with the story of your life as you are meant to understand it.
There is a price for what we choose to remember and what we choose to forget, for the story we make of it.
If you had known how this would all turn out, maybe you would have recorded everything.
Or if you'd known the cost, maybe you would not have recorded anything at all.
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