The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent Lesson 7 – Listening to the Pros (or Not)

 

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Today’s blog might seem to contradict last week’s post about how I regretted not joining genealogical organizations earlier. But hear me out—this is a different kind of lesson.

When I decided to take the leap and become a professional genealogist, I did what many of us do: I turned to the experts. Longtime professionals told me there were a few non-negotiables—complete certain online courses, pursue credentialing, and charge fees that, quite frankly, I knew my clients couldn’t afford.

I listened. I believed them. And honestly? It didn’t sit well with me from the start.

The first issue was the recommended online course. I was on a waitlist, which ended up being a blessing in disguise. I was working a job that had me traveling constantly across the country—there was no realistic way I could log in consistently at the scheduled times. I would’ve failed before I even started.

I also applied for credentials, and… well, that was a wake-up call. (You can read about that experience here.) My clients didn’t care about my professional journey. They didn’t ask about credentials. They didn’t want to know about my course plans or associations. They wanted answers. Period. That experience made me reevaluate what I actually needed to build a meaningful and sustainable business. As an educator, I value credentials to insure that somene is competent in their field and I planned to one day revisit genealogical credentializing (more to come soon!) but that step didn't impact my growing business.

Then came the topic of fees.

I understood the argument from those already well-established in the field. They were charging high rates and worried that my lower fees might undercut the “market.” I get it. I was the Big Lots to their Macy’s.

But charging what they charged didn’t feel right to me. I knew the people I wanted to help—those searching for answers, sometimes quietly and painfully—couldn’t afford boutique pricing. And that mattered more to me.

To this day, I still undercharge. And you know what? I’m okay with that. I’m at peace with that decision. And all those pros who once told me what I had to do? They’ve since retired from genealogy. Their path wasn’t mine.

Maybe they meant well. Or maybe they wanted to keep genealogy as a kind of exclusive club. But that’s not how I see it.

I believe everyone deserves access to their family history—for medical reasons, for breaking cycles, for healing, for honoring those who came before us. I believe in empowering people to understand their story.

That’s why I’ve learned to be who I am, not what others think I should be. It’s my business. I run it my way.

In last week’s post, I mentioned how I wished I’d had a mentor early on. Let me clarify that—I wish I’d had someone who listened to me. Someone who supported who I was and what I valued. Not someone trying to mold me into something else.

If you’re thinking about going pro, here’s my advice: Find someone you connect with. Someone whose values align with yours. Years ago, I turned down the chance to mentor someone in another state. This was pre-Zoom, and I wasn’t sure phone mentoring would be effective. I suggested she find someone local instead. I never heard from her again, and I still wonder if she gave up on genealogy altogether. That thought saddens me.

So if you have the passion and the desire to go pro—don’t let anyone stand in your way. Especially not someone telling you there's only one right path. Because in genealogy, just like in life, the best path is the one that feels right to you.

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent Lesson 6 – Failing to join an organization

 

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I’ve had a passion for genealogy for as long as I can remember—I just didn’t know it had a name.

As a child, I was drawn to the family stories my grandmother told and captivated by her scrapbooks and photo albums filled with long-ago faces and forgotten events. The mystery of my paternal side, which no one ever discussed, only deepened my curiosity. As a teenager, I started searching for answers—but not knowing what I was doing, I didn’t get far. College and life pulled me away for a while.

When my first child was born, I eagerly opened the baby book—only to find I couldn’t complete the family tree. I knew my paternal grandparents, but beyond that? Nothing. My dad told me he’d give me a family book I hadn’t known existed—someday. But when that day came, and he passed, the book never made its way to me. My stepmother found it too much trouble to mail.

So I turned to the internet, which was just beginning to bloom, and took a beginner class at a local Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In hindsight, what I really needed back then was a mentor—someone to show me the ropes, answer my endless questions, and guide me along the path. I should have joined a local or national organization. But with a full-time job, kids to raise, elders to care for, a house to run—and no extra money to spare—I didn’t.

Instead, I used every scrap of free time to work on my tree. I shared my excitement with colleagues, though most didn’t understand why I’d spend vacation time at the Family History Library in Salt Lake. Still, when they had family mysteries, they came to me. I happily helped, and they were amazed at what I uncovered.

More requests came in. I never charged a cent—it never occurred to me to think of myself as a professional.

Then one day, a former boss told me, “You know, people would probably pay you to do this.” I was stunned—and, honestly, panicked. I thought he was letting me go and hinting I should start a business in the middle of a recession. He laughed and clarified: “You’re very good at this. You could turn it into something real.”

I set that thought aside. Life was already complicated.

But as the kids grew up and moved out, I finally had more time—and a little more money. I joined a local society and two national organizations. I attended conferences, subscribed to journals, and slowly built my confidence. I chose a name for my business: Genealogy At Heart, because I wanted to focus on what I loved—helping people uncover those sensitive family secrets. With my background in education and counseling, it was a natural fit.

What I didn’t know? That there were resources out there to help me from the start. I hadn’t heard of SCORE, a free business mentoring service. I didn’t know about the Association of Professional Genealogists, which offers tools, advice, and a sense of community. Had I joined an organization earlier—whether a local society or a national group—I would have had a much smoother beginning as a business owner.

Genealogy can feel like a solitary pursuit. We stay up late combing through records, take solo road trips to distant archives, and keep quiet at family gatherings to avoid the eye rolls. But it doesn’t have to be lonely. And it shouldn’t be.

Today, I’m actively involved in several genealogical organizations. They’ve helped me refine my research, consult with experts, and become a better genealogist—not just for clients, but for my own family, too. I no longer rely solely on myself, and I’ve learned that collaboration isn’t a luxury—it’s a strength.

Looking back, I can only imagine how much further I’d be if I’d learned this lesson sooner. But I’m glad I did.

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent Lesson 5 - Software Shuffle

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Welcome to another installment in my continuing series on genealogical misadventures! Today’s topic: my long, bumpy road with technology.

I’ve always embraced tech—but it didn’t always embrace me back.

Back in college, I took a programming course in PLC. The professor told us to throw out the textbook and “go with our gut.” Let’s just say... my gut wasn’t fluent in code. I had signed up for the course because my then-boyfriend (now husband) raved about it. Mid semester, I switched to a new instructor—Dr. Birkin, a kind man with a charming British accent who actually used the textbook. I passed the class, but the experience left me scarred. We were still programming with punch cards back then, and one typo could bring the whole system down. I managed to do exactly that once—and earned a full hour of death stares from the engineering students.

So, when software for genealogy came along, I dove in eagerly—because at least I wasn’t programming it myself! But it turns out software has its own kind of drama.

My big misstep? Relying on just one platform.

At first, I uploaded everything—sources, photos, notes—into Ancestry.com. It was easy. It was convenient. It was also incredibly risky.

Because here’s the thing: if Ancestry ever disappears (and nothing digital is forever), so does everything I’ve painstakingly added. Paranoia, in genealogy, can be a healthy survival strategy. And that means backing up your work in multiple places.

When Family Tree Maker (FTM) was integrated with Ancestry in its early years, I jumped onboard. But then the sync stopped working. Ancestry blamed FTM. FTM blamed Ancestry. I spent a year caught in the crossfire, and finally gave up. So did Ancestry—they ditched FTM and partnered with RootsMagic instead.

I gave RootsMagic a try. I liked it—until it came time to update my records. One. At. A. Time. It was tedious, and I let it slide. Eventually, that program stopped cooperating too.

I also dabbled with Legacy Family Tree. I appreciated its features, but the downside? It doesn’t sync with Ancestry. My sources were preserved—but not my photos or documents. Still, it remains part of my backup plan.

Then, about three years ago, Family Tree Maker came back around with an offer. After a helpful chat with their support team, I gave them another shot. The sync worked again—thankfully—just as RootsMagic had failed me.

So, what have I learned from this revolving door of software?

Stay current. Stay flexible. And never trust your entire tree to a single platform.

Test new tools. Keep your programs updated. And most importantly, store your research in more than one place—cloud, external drive, software, even printed backups. Because when one system crashes (and eventually, it will), you’ll have something to fall back on.

If you think you’re immune to tech mishaps, I’ll leave you with this: the only thing more painful than lost records… is knowing you had them, once.