I pour a cup of coffee and open my laptop.

It’s time to write, and the blank page awaits. A memory surfaces. But where do I begin?

I call on my inner guides to help me navigate the initial steps of crafting a memory into a story. Transforming vivid recollections into narratives that resonate with universal truths requires immense emotional energy. The pull towards the past, the need to make sense of who I am, and how past events have shaped the person I am today can be compelling and frustrating. My memory is sharp, a gift that sometimes feels like a curse. I’ve been jotting down brief descriptions of moments resurfacing when I reflect on the past.

Some memories stir physical sensations—a sinking feeling in my stomach, a quickened heartbeat.

Others bring a chuckle. I stay attuned to what I feel in my heart and mind.

Anger, amazement, bewilderment, confusion, delight, energy, happiness, intrigue, judgment, love, open-heartedness, pessimism, fear, wonder.

The possibilities are endless.

The intensity of a memory often signals deeper meaning.

I seek out the memories that ignite passion and provoke a strong reaction. Sometimes, these memories feel as vivid as if they just happened. As I write, I constantly check in with my emotions. I recall the facts from my earliest memories. I remember the day George was run over by our neighbor’s tractor. Like the other kids, he rode in the front while others were in the back. The tractor never went faster than eight miles per hour. But George fell off when Gregory turned to look at the kids in the back.

He was five years old then, and I was eight. This memory stands out, perhaps because I remember that day so clearly.

There are no photos from that day, but I can still see Gregory carrying George to our house and laying him on the sofa while my mom called for an ambulance. There was no 9-1-1 back then; I could hear her speaking to the operator in the kitchen. It wasn’t a story George shared with many people. I don’t remember him being afraid.

My mom sat beside him, stroking his hair. Then he vomited. People were standing around, but no one moved until my mom yelled for someone to get a towel from the bathroom. The ambulance arrived, and George and my mom went to the hospital while I stayed with the neighbors. I don’t know why Gregory wasn’t watching George more closely—he was the youngest. But George had ridden on the tractor many times before without incident. When my mom returned from the hospital, she was relieved and hugged me, assuring me that George was going to be okay. Her calming words erased my fear. She said George wasn’t scared of being in the hospital.

I’ve often wondered how this memory fits into the larger narrative of my life. It was an unusual event, with no pattern of us being hurt. What does this memory reveal about George or me? When I close my eyes, I can return to that scene. What else was happening in my life at that time?

Now, I understand more about my mother’s state of mind. A few hours later, she returned to the hospital and stayed with George all night. Jacki, my mom’s “best friend,” stayed with me at home. I couldn’t comprehend the dynamics of my mother’s relationship with Jacki then.

Decades later, my aunts and grandfather filled in the details. I now have insights into the deeper truths of my mother’s and Jacki’s relationship that I couldn’t have understood as a child.

Unearthing deeper truths and crafting impactful stories from my memories is challenging, even on the best days.