I didn’t wake up one morning and decide, Today, I shall become a memoirist.
The realization came quietly — in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of reflection, in the middle of remembering.
Someone pointed out that based on how I think, speak, and process life, I fit the profile of a memoirist. At first, I paused. I had always thought of memoirists as writers — people who publish books, tell dramatic stories, or stand in front of audiences. I didn’t see myself that way.
But then I started looking at how I actually move through life.
I realized that I don’t simply remember events. I trace their meaning. I don’t just recall experiences — I examine their impact, their emotional weight, their long shadows. I connect childhood to adulthood, past wounds to present choices, pain to growth, silence to strength.
I live inside a continuous timeline, always asking:
How did this shape me? Why did this matter? What did this change?
That’s when it clicked.
I am a memoirist — not because I write novelettes or blog, but because I live narratively.
I process life in chapters.
I carry memory as a compass.
I search for coherence, not just survival.
Some people move forward without looking back. Others get stuck in the past. I seem to move through time, weaving memory, emotion, and insight into understanding. I don’t revisit my past to suffer again — I revisit it to make sense of myself.
And perhaps the most beautiful coincidence of all:
My name, IRIS, sits right in the middle of the word memoirist.
memo — IRIS — t
Memory.
Seeing.
Understanding.
It felt like poetry written by accident.
Being a memoirist doesn’t mean being dramatic. It doesn’t mean romanticizing pain. It means honoring experience. It means believing that every season of life — even the most painful — carries meaning worth understanding.
It means trusting that reflection is not weakness, but wisdom in progress.
I realized that my constant self-examination, my desire to understand emotional patterns, my instinct to map life events across decades — none of these are flaws. They are simply how I am wired.
I am someone who remembers in order to heal.
Who reflects in order to grow.
Who revisits in order to forgive.
Who narrates in order to understand.
And maybe, one day, these quiet reflections will become written stories. But even if they don’t, I now know this:
I am living my memoir — consciously, thoughtfully, and with intention.
And that realization alone feels like coming home to myself.
The World of Second Chances 