Do you ever feel like you’re a walking contradiction, carrying around all these mismatched parts of yourself, just waiting to trip over them? I do. It’s practically my talent at this point—running into pieces of myself I didn’t know were still lurking around. One minute, I’m minding my business, drinking my tea, and the next, I’m face-to-face with an old version of me I forgot existed, tapping me on the shoulder like, “Oh, now you remember?”
It’s been happening more than usual lately, and I can’t say I haven’t noticed the reason why. This week marks the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing, and she’s been cropping up in my dreams—vivid ones, that pull me back to my youth and my childhood, to moments I don’t think I’ve fully unpacked. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my grandmother dearly, but she wasn’t always kind. There was emotional abuse, blackmail, words she’d say that I could never quite forget, even if I’d managed to ignore them for a while. And it’s funny (or maybe not so funny) how those old memories have a way of resurfacing, especially around anniversaries, as if they’re waiting to remind you of who you were and who you still are, despite everything.
So here I am, faced with the ghosts of myself I tried to leave behind. These aren’t grand revelations, either; more like a scavenger hunt where each clue is a slightly cringeworthy reminder of past me. Like the optimist who once believed everyone in the world could change if they’d only read the right book. Or the hopeless romantic who thought love alone would be enough to heal everything and everyone. And, of course, there’s the poet in me who would spend hours lost in the sound of waves, convinced they held some profound secret about life, because what could be more poetic?
Some of these selves feel like strangers, but others are uncomfortably familiar. And while I’d love to believe I’ve outgrown them, they clearly haven’t gone anywhere. They’re just hanging out in the quiet spaces, waiting for the right (or wrong) moment to appear again. Maybe I’ve left these breadcrumbs for myself all along, like some sort of reminder of the things I once believed and the ways I once saw the world. And in moments of silence, they come creeping back up, asking to be acknowledged, even when I’d rather just move on.
But here’s the thing: even though these run-ins are sometimes jarring, they also remind me of everything that makes me me. Because those versions I’d rather forget? They all shaped me in some way. And even if they’re outdated or idealistic, they’re still part of my story. They’re like old furniture I’ve lugged from house to house, even when I don’t have room for it, because something about it feels like home.
So here’s what I’ve come to realise: if you find yourself crossing paths with a part of you that feels long forgotten—like the dreamer, or the one who cared too much, or even the self that feels a bit too close to painful memories—maybe don’t dismiss it right away. Maybe let that part of you linger, because even if you’ve tried to shut the door on those memories, they’re still part of you, part of what’s shaped you into who you are now.
And who knows? The next time you’re sitting quietly, or standing by the sea, letting the waves carry away your thoughts, you might reconnect with a part of yourself you didn’t even realise you missed.
reflections of an unquiet mind 