Calm care coordination — for the people who need it most.

She is a person who never sits still. Trails, yard work, a spotless house, anything that keeps her moving. For most of my life I've been the one catching my breath halfway up the hill while she waits at the top, barely winded.

In September 2020, the Holiday Farm Fire broke out six miles from her home in Oregon. Around midnight, she woke to find her house on fire. Her neighbors pounded on her door, then ran for their lives.

It took her five minutes to get dressed and get out. Those five minutes were enough but the fire had closed in around her, and fallen trees had blocked the roads.

So she went to the place that made sense to her: a running track nearby. She waited there, with the fire burning all around her, for eighteen hours, until rescuers could finally reach her.

She survived. But we believe the smoke she breathed that night took something from her. In the time that followed, the first signs of dementia began to appear.

Today my mother lives in a family member's home, surrounded by people who love her. We know how lucky we are. But I learned quickly that love doesn't keep a care team organized. Her medical history, her doctor's appointments, her documents, the updates on how she was doing that day were scattered across group texts, email threads, folders on someone's laptop, or nowhere at all. Everyone was trying. No one had the whole picture.

Around the same time, a close friend asked me to be her power of attorney. She was only 65. I said yes, and soon after, we learned she had dementia too.

Suddenly I was selling her home and her car, finding her a place in a progressive residential community, and hiring a three-person care team. Once again I was playing whack-a-mole: caregivers, doctors, family, timesheets, expenses, and more cooks in the kitchen every week.

And this time I carried a weight I hadn't carried for my mother. As her power of attorney, any decision I made could one day be examined in court. It wasn't enough to believe I was acting in her best interest. I needed to be able to show it.

I've spent my career in the technology sector, so I did what I know how to do. I turned to technology to solve the problem. That's how Binda began.

The name comes from my mother's family name, Binder. It's also exactly what Binda is: a binder. One place that holds everything, from appointments and updates to medical history, documents and conversations. And it connects everyone caring for the same person: the family, the care team and the doctors.

For my mother, Binda means no one in the family is left guessing. For my friend, it gave me something I didn't know I needed. Every action taken on her behalf is documented, and everyone who should see it can.

Dementia takes so much from a family. It shouldn't also take away their ability to work together. If you're the one holding it all together right now, I built Binda for you.