Stories Along The Way

If only I had kept a journal.

I would love to open it today and revisit my life—not just the big moments, but the little ones I no longer remember.

I remember some things from when I was little. I remember being away from my mom. I remember feeling threatened by my cousin. I remember growing up without a dad.

Those memories stayed with me.

But what about all the happy ones?

I know there were many.

I don’t remember my first day of school. I don’t remember every birthday or every Christmas. I don’t remember all those afternoons when we were kids and all we did was play and have fun.

I know those days happened. I lived them.

I just can’t remember them all.

That’s the strange thing about memories. Sometimes the difficult ones stay so clear, while the ordinary happy days quietly fade away.

I wish I could pick up a journal from when I was eight years old and read what made me laugh that day. Who was my best friend? What did we play? What did I think about my teacher? What was I excited about? What silly little thing happened that seemed so important to me then?

Then I would open another journal from when I was sixteen.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Imagine being able to meet all those younger versions of yourself again through your own words.

I can’t go back and write those journals now.

But perhaps, in a way, that’s what I’m doing today.

I’m writing down the stories I still remember—the good ones, the difficult ones, the funny ones and the ordinary ones.

I have already written 67 of them.

I can’t recover every memory I’ve lost, but I can preserve the ones that are still with me.

And years from now, I won’t have to wonder what I was thinking or feeling during this part of my life.

I’ll be able to read it.

Stories Along the Way

I think this one has something special because it quietly explains why you’re writing all these stories in the first place.