Marc Laflamme

The Story Between the Messages 2026-09-29

A Digital Memoir of 2017-2020
In 2026, I accidentally rediscovered a forgotten part of my life.
Buried within an old iCloud folder was a nameless file, thirty-three megabytes in size, carrying nothing but a long string of letters and numbers. At first glance it looked like digital garbage, something left behind by an old backup. Instead, it turned out to be a time capsule.
Inside were thousands upon thousands of messages.
Conversations I had long forgotten. Plans I had made. Dreams I was chasing. Friendships, family moments, frustrations, achievements, setbacks and victories. For a few hours, I was no longer reading a database. I was reading my own history.
Back then, life revolved around my condo at 209 Fort York Blvd. The messages tell the story of showings, inspections, negotiations, paperwork and uncertainty. Every text seemed to capture another step toward an unknown future. I remember wondering whether the right buyer would come along, whether the timing was right, and whether moving forward was the correct decision. Looking back now, I can see that I was standing at a crossroads without realizing it.
That journey eventually led me to 70 Soldier Street.
The archive records every stage of the process. Mortgage approvals. Deposits. Lawyers. Conditions. Closing dates. Keys. Moving trucks. Furniture deliveries. Countless messages discussing boxes, schedules, and all the chaos that comes with building a new home. What seemed ordinary at the time became one of the defining chapters of my life.
Running through nearly every year of the archive is Goldie.
Goldie appears in messages about walks, feeding schedules, backyard adventures, grooming appointments, and simple daily check-ins. It is funny how often a beloved pet becomes part of life’s routine without us noticing. Reading those messages reminded me that some of the most important parts of life are not the major milestones but the small, repeated moments shared with those who depend on us.
Then there is Rishabh.
The messages capture birthdays, family outings, school activities, daycare discussions, videos, meals, bike rides and hundreds of little moments that might otherwise have disappeared into memory. Watching those years unfold in text form was like opening an old family photo album, except every page was alive with conversation.
Family appears everywhere.
My sister, Melanie Laflamme, surfaces throughout the archive during both good times and difficult ones. Like many families, we experienced moments of support, moments of worry, and moments where simply staying connected mattered more than anything else. Looking back, I am grateful that those threads of connection remained woven throughout the years.
Another major chapter was education.
For years I juggled work, studies and personal responsibilities. The messages are filled with references to assignments, presentations, deadlines, exams and grades at Sheridan. Reading them reminded me how much determination it took to keep moving forward one course at a time. Every late night of studying and every completed assignment eventually became part of a larger journey toward professional growth.
Alongside those studies was a developing career.
The archive follows countless interviews, recruiter calls, salary negotiations, onboarding discussions and workplace challenges. At the time, I was building experience, pursuing opportunities and learning the payroll profession that would later become a central part of my identity. The messages reveal someone who was always looking toward the next step, trying to improve, learn and grow.
Then came 2020.
Almost overnight the tone of the conversations changed.
COVID-19 arrived and the world slowed down. The messages shifted toward working from home, empty grocery shelves, uncertainty about jobs, concerns for loved ones, school closures and adapting to a world none of us had experienced before. It was a strange period filled with anxiety, resilience and constant change. Yet even during that time, life continued. We still laughed. We still planned. We still checked in on one another.
What surprised me most was not the big moments.
It was the ordinary moments.
A quick text saying someone arrived home safely.
A reminder to feed Goldie.
A discussion about dinner.
A train schedule.
A funny joke.
A congratulations.
A simple “How are you?”
Those tiny moments formed the majority of the archive, and together they told a story far more meaningful than any single accomplishment ever could.
When I first found that forgotten file, I thought I had recovered an old database.
What I actually recovered was a piece of myself.
The archive reminded me that life is not measured only by major achievements. It is measured by relationships, conversations, struggles overcome, lessons learned and everyday moments shared with the people who matter.
This memoir exists so those moments are not lost again.
Because one day, years from now, I may read these words and remember not just where I lived or what job I had, but who I was becoming.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest reason to preserve our stories.