Sometimes, something gently tugs me back in time—not with dramatic impact, but with a subtle pull: a drawer left ajar, a file I don’t recall saving, a voice memo played by accident. In those brief moments, a familiar part of me awakens. It isn’t longing or regret; it’s pure recognition.
Not long ago, I rediscovered the first chapter of a book I once began writing—a project left unfinished, a remnant of a time I hardly remembered dedicating effort to. As I read those words, I reconnected with the person I once was: the cadence of my thoughts, the things that made me laugh, the ideas I found clever, and the beliefs I genuinely cherished.
A cascade of memories followed, not of the story itself, but of that youthful self who reveled in the simplest pleasures—spontaneous midnight drives, inexpensive tacos, and friends whose off-key singing filled evenings with joy. I recalled how a single lyric could ignite an entire storyline and how I used to sketch out ideas on the margins of grocery lists.
I had forgotten how deeply I loved that creative spirit. I had forgotten how natural it felt to create simply for the joy of it—to embark on projects without worrying about their conclusions or audiences. Even fragments of an unfinished song reappeared; though its melody has long faded away, the emotion it carried still resonates. Likewise, I remembered a sketch I intended to transform into a painting. I never began it, yet I recall the exact feeling I wanted it to evoke—the interplay of colors, the depth of emotion, the quiet stillness I hoped to capture.
That version of me hasn’t vanished; she was merely buried under deadlines, distractions, and the constant pressure to be efficient, responsible, and mature. Recently, though, I’ve been letting her resurface in small, meaningful ways—rediscovering old playlists, writing paragraphs for no one in particular, cooking elaborate dishes for the fun of it, and allowing ideas to remain unruly a bit longer than usual.
I’ve come to understand that not everything has to be a goal and not every creation needs to be shared. Sometimes, the act of remembering who you once were is enough. I had forgotten that love, but now I remember—and that remembrance feels like a new beginning.
