My classmates and childhood friends have often described me as someone with a sharp memory.

I remember what happened when we were kids: who cried on the first day of school, who was naughty, who was quiet, who was the teacher’s pet, who seemed to stand out even at a young age. These small details stayed with me, not because I tried to hold on to them, but because they simply never left.

As we grew older, my friends from my teenage years were often amused—or sometimes a little cynical—about my tendency to remember everything. I could recall who dated whom, who was considered the most admired in school, who fought over what, and who quietly carried their first heartbreak.

Occasionally, I share pieces of my own story too. I remember the quick getaways from school, the people I once found endearing, and the season of my life when bouquets of flowers would arrive at my college room from quiet admirers. I remember my first boyfriend as well—someone who, in hindsight, was far too controlling (sorry! haha)

From a memoirist’s point of view, these memories are not meant to entertain or provoke. I tell them to revisit the moments that shaped me, to understand how each experience—no matter how simple or complex—contributed to the person I am today.

When I speak of the love I lost as a teenager, I do not dwell on the person. Instead, I acknowledge the timeline of events, trusting that both the good and the painful helped form the way I now see the world—with clarity, without bitterness, and without regret.

Not everyone understands how a memoirist’s mind works. But for me, remembering is not about holding on—it is about understanding, and quietly moving forward.