How To Stop Erasing Your Past Every Time You Grow

Throughout my life, I’ve found serious satisfaction in wiping the slate clean. I’ve thrown out things I probably shouldn’t have; memories of my past that I will never get back. There is a thrill that comes with knowing that I am in full control of shaping exactly how I want the world to see me, even after I’m gone. And I’d be lying if I didn’t share that there is also a thrill in knowing that if someone does me wrong, I intend on erasing every reminder of them possible. And the cherry on top is when they are fully aware that I will, in fact, erase them.

I once had an ex tell me to keep the scrapbook he made me. “Promise me you won’t throw it away.” He said. I reluctantly promised, and a couple weeks later I shoved it into his mailbox, laughing as I drove away. No one cheats on me and gets to live rent free in my memory box. And yes, I know you cheated.

If you’re anything like me, you don’t just move on, you erase. Photos, messages, journals – entire versions of yourself. At the time, I told myself I had outgrown my past, but honestly, I often deleted it because I just didn’t want to be associated with it anymore. The school drama, the boys I dated that made me feel like a fool, the friends that walked all over me, the bullies that tortured me, and my constant need for approval. Ugh, I was so over that girl.

So many of the things I’ve thrown away (or shoved into a mailbox) come with zero regrets. But some of those memories were proof of how far I’ve come. Part of my story that I may never recover, was sacred. And much of it was erased simply because I was so worried about what others thought of me. I didn’t realize then that I was letting other people decide what parts of me were worth keeping. I didn’t know that what I called strength was actually avoidance.

I never needed a fresh start, I needed the courage to keep the story.

So, I made a new rule for myself: I don’t erase anymore, I document. I write in my journal even when I know it will be cringey later, I save photos I don’t love, I write about seasons I don’t fully understand yet in the hopes that writing them down will help me understand things later. I do all of this because the version of me I might want to erase later is usually the one I need to understand the most.

And after I’m gone? My children will see all that I was, all that I am today, and just how deeply I will always love them. Not a perfect version, a real one. They won’t need proof that I had it all together. They’ll need proof that I lived, changed, struggled, and ultimately kept going.

See you,
Amy