Memory Isn't a Timeline, It's a Pop-Up Book
You’re allowed to turn the page without tearing it out.
That late summer warm that's immediately cooled by a breeze you only find in Santa Barbara, California. It's the way stepping off the plane hits all your senses at once in a way that's lost on long road trips along the Pacific Ocean. The smell of those magenta paper flowers spilling out of terracotta pots. The sound of flip-flops against the pavement of a paved paradise, freedom in the air because the ocean's so close you can taste it.
The sun reflecting off the ocean in ways sunglasses were invented for. The cool shift in the breeze when you head down from Oregon into Humboldt County, where the redwoods meet the sea. You can breathe deeper there. Your shoulders relax in ways you didn't even know they were tense. Your heart beats in time with the waves crashing on the shore.
It's different inland. Still and frantic. Loud and messy. More people than trees. It makes you long for the foggy redwoods of growing up in Humboldt or the warm palm trees of Santa Barbara. The feel of the sand under your feet. The salty breeze on your lips. All the things that stifling heat and frozen winters can't touch. Where ice downs power lines and neighbors never talk even though you're surrounded by more people in one block than lived in the entire valley you grew up running barefoot in, banana slugs between your toes.
It's the lonely sounds of the local bagpiper who set up on the dunes of Clam Beach. It's the dogs you walked there. The friends you took to see the ocean for the first time. It's the breeze that's a balm on a hot day down south, but a chilly blast further north where the fog rolls in like Mother Nature's credits, softening the world one breath at a time. Speed limits don't apply the same at 5 AM as they do at 5 PM, and everyone knows it.
It's that roller coaster you swore you were old enough to go on, but one ride was plenty. Because you already lived with that stomach-dropping, forehead-tingling, muscle-tightening, screaming feeling. Only you learned to bottle it up. To mask it. To push it down. To deny your body's truth to fit into cookie-cutter images made for public consumption.
If you threw up on the ride, you'd never hear the end of it. Just like if you showed any "unacceptable" emotion. We call each other out to mask our own pain. Mocking each other is easier than facing ourselves.
That's why I shift the mirror so much when I write. Because sometimes you need to see it from someone else's point of view before you can admit it applies to you. And sometimes you need to see yourself first before you can agree it should apply to everyone.
Because you're both a special flower and not a special flower at all. If you know, you know.
I remember details.
The digital clock reading 10:26 PM when I found out who my real dad was.
The index card where I scribbled notes while gathering information after my dad's suicide, tucked away in a desk drawer I could find blindfolded, even a decade later.
We’re told we're hypochondriacs, even though so many of us are misdiagnosed.
We're told grieving is selfish. That processing trauma is narcissistic.
We recognize trauma in strangers but can't see it staring back at us in the mirror. Our struggles are never "bad enough" to warrant attention or compassion.
We're taught to glorify suffering in silence. To think crying is weakness. That "real men" only feel rage, and happiness is some American Dream subscription service you can't cancel.
Meanwhile, the world rushes by. And we all need to center ourselves in the moments more.
It's why pets are emotional support animals — and if you think that didn't apply to that old farm dog your grandpa took everywhere, have I got a story for you about the local farmer who became famous for traveling with his six-foot llama like it was his avatar.
It's the snuggles we’re allowed to give and receive without judgment. Whether we call them fur babies or barn cats doesn't matter. If you're buying cat food, you're a cat owner. (I don't know who needed to hear that, but if you didn't just get a whiff of kibble smell reading that, you're probably a dog person.)
Those big dogs who "take up the whole bed"? They're giving your unconscious body sensory input. They nourish your soul. It's why you curse when you step in the poop they left somewhere inconvenient but buy them treats anyway.
Because we recognize in animals that sometimes they just act without thinking it through. We forgive them.
But we won't forgive ourselves for the same?
I'm not talking about excusing plain meanness. (Don't actually make someone cry just because you're having a bad day. Knock that off.) I'm talking about forgiving yourself the same way you hold space for others to grow.
When you remember that thing that makes you cringe — learn from it. Own it. Do better.
Not because you're broken. Not because you're irredeemable.
Because you’re human.
Memory isn't a timeline. It's a pop-up book. Some pages are soft. Some pages scream when you open them. All of them are part of the story.
You’re allowed to turn the page without tearing it out.
Today’s Assignment: Reach back for a well worn memory that you’re proud of. You’re allowed to smile & pat yourself on the back. I won’t tell anyone.
~AK