I don’t wear t-shirts much anymore. At this stage of life, I lean toward button-downs and sweaters—clothes that feel more fitting for the person I’ve become. But tucked away in drawers, closets, and bins were dozens of t-shirts that once meant something. Shirts from races I ran. Places I visited. Causes I supported. Events I’ll never forget.

They weren’t just cotton—they were chapters. Each one held a memory, a version of me I didn’t want to forget. But what do you do with things that mean something to you, even if they no longer serve their original purpose?

I decided to do a full inventory. I sorted my collection into three stacks:

1. Throw away.
2. Give to Goodwill.
3. Keep

The “keep” pile was made up of shirts that had earned their stay—not because I’d wear them again, but because they held a story. Still, I knew they would sit in a drawer, unseen. So I asked myself: What if I could keep the memories, but in a new form?

That’s when the idea came: a quilt. A hand-sewn, deeply personal quilt, made entirely from those saved t-shirts. Each square is a window into a moment—a snapshot in cloth. Now, instead of hiding in the back of a drawer, those memories keep me warm on the couch when I settle in for a nap or flip on the TV.

It’s more than a blanket. It’s a comforter in the truest sense—not just soft and warm, but emotionally comforting. Because when I look at it, I see myself: my younger selves, my dreaming, striving, laughing selves. It’s part scrapbook, part collage, part love letter to the life I’ve lived.

It turns out I’m not the first to do this. The idea of a “memory quilt” has deep roots in American history—people have long used scraps of old clothing to preserve stories and honor loved ones. But t-shirt quilts are a more modern variation, born out of the way tee shirts have become our cultural keepsakes—worn tokens of who we were, where we’ve been, and what we’ve cared about. This quilt of mine is part of that tradition, stitched from the fabric of memory, identity, and time.

There are 24 shirts stitched into the quilt, and each one holds something sacred. A few of them:

• Being a Dad: “World’s Best Dad” and a shirt that shows me with my daughter in front of Machu Picchu, my favorite place in the world—a place I’ve been to three times.

• Shared adventures: Shirts from climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro and one that says “Survivor” after my kids and I were swept away by a rogue wave on the southern coast of Vancouver Island.

• School pride: A shirt from Williams College, where I studied and played varsity hockey—experiences that still shape who I am.
• Places that ground me: Shirts from Chappaquiddick Island on Martha’s Vineyard and Stuart, Florida—both places layered with family memories and history.

• Being a grandfather: “Best Gramps Ever,” “Only the Best Dads Get Promoted to Grampa,” and one with the tiny footprints of a one-year-old grandchild.

• Dancing through life: Shirts from “Dancing with the Stars” with famous partners, “The Dream Team,” “Wherever Neil Leads,” and “So You Think You Can Dance.”
• Work and play: A shirt from my entrepreneurial days with Flexcar (now Zipcar), and others that just made me laugh: “Real Men Don’t Read Instructions,” and “It Took Me 10 Years to Look This Good.”
• Travel: Australia, the Philippines (complete with jeepneys), the Bahamas—places I explored with my children and my two best childhood friends and their families.

Each patch is a touchstone. Some make me smile. Some take my breath away. All remind me of who I’ve been, what I’ve loved, and how I’ve spent my days on this earth.

And here’s what I’ve come to believe: this quilt isn’t just about repurposing old shirts. It’s about honoring the lives we’ve already lived, even as we live new ones. It’s a quiet act of remembering, of integrating the past into the present. Of making peace with who we were and finding a way to let those versions of ourselves rest beside us, rather than fade away.

I’ve thought about giving it a name—something to match its meaning. Maybe:

• The Memory Quilt
• The Cotton Chronicle
• The Patchwork of Me
• The Comforter of Who I’ve Been
• The Thread of My Life

Or maybe it doesn’t need a name. Maybe its purpose is enough. To be used, appreciated, and wrapped around me—like the stories it tells.