THESE (MAGIC) MOMENTS

I have a horrible memory. There are whole chunks of my life and numerous family vacations that I can’t recall at all. (Much to my mother’s frustration. Those vacations were well planned and apparently very fun!) Combine this faulty recall with my OCD’s tendency to endlessly question the validity of the memories I do have, and I’m left feeling like I can’t claim any of my past life at all. Knowing this about myself, there have been certain moments that I make a conscious effort to commit to memory while they are happening because I know that I will want to take them with me. Because, while our experiences shape us, I think it’s our memories that make us who we are. So, picking which memories I hold onto along with what meaning I attach to them, feels like a tangible way to influence who I am and how I view the world.

One of those moments happened in November 2020, when I had just returned to New York following my broken engagement. I had recently come home so I was not only grappling with one of the biggest traumas of my life, but I was doing so while wearing a mask so I wouldn’t infect my parents with Covid. This meant I had yet to experience any comforting human touch since my fiancé walked out on me. Just another detail that made the experience extra spicy (horrifying). It was also Thanksgiving and holidays have always had an uncanny ability to magnify my loneliness.

So there I was, sitting at my parents’ kitchen table while the rest of the family ate out on the deck despite the cold weather. I looked at my parents, my sister and her husband and kids. I felt overcome not just by the loss of my partner but of the future I thought I had finally procured for myself. I was yet again the one single person at a family event. The pain was as tangible as the tears running down my face. Now this could be the moment that I remembered. This feeling of separateness and disappointment. This sense that no matter how hard I try, people will eventually leave me. That even though I have periods of partnership, I will inevitably find myself the odd one out, not just at family events but in life.  

But that’s not the moment I chose. Instead, my mind locked onto what happened next. My father disregarded Covid safety measures to come eat his meal next to me and rub my back. I don’t remember what he said or if he said anything at all, but his physical presence was a reminder that even though I was single, I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t going to have to go through all this pain by myself. And his love for me outweighed his fear of getting sick. As I sat there, I thought, “Remember this. Remember how much you are loved.” And I did.

One of the strangest parts about memory is how subjective it is. Two people can walk away from the same experience with completely different recollections. And the meanings and takeaways we attach to certain memories can change with time. We also have no idea which moments will stick with the people we shared them with. I’m sure my father didn’t sit next to me that day because he knew it would have a profound impact on my perspective and healing. He probably just saw his daughter crying and did what felt natural. It’s a reminder that our actions toward each other are more powerful than we think. The next time you wonder if you should send that check-in text or compliment someone on their work or kindness, but think it might not matter, remind yourself that you have no idea what will matter to them. But if there is even a chance that your action makes it into their memory, it will have been worth it.

While writing this piece, I keep having flashes of the episode from The Office when Jim and Pam get married. They do this adorable thing where they pretend to take mental pictures throughout the day, so they’ll remember it later. I’ve always loved that concept. I feel like I want to combine it with an intention to not just collect obvious moments like celebrations and wedding ceremonies, but to actively store memories that will help me later. What are moments we can draw from in times of weakness or pain?

I personally want to assemble a collection that negates all my greatest fears. I want evidence I can point to that proves I am loved and talented and worthy. I want to mentally snapshot those moments even when they are small and easy to otherwise forget. I might not have an extensive memory. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a carefully curated one.

xoxo,

Allison