Rowan Aderyn

I was reading a wonderful article the other day about how many of us spend a lot of our lives either living in the past or living in the future.

We worry about what we are cooking for dinner, whether we’ve remembered to send that email, or what our jobs, finances and families might look like next year. At the same time, we look backwards. Sometimes with fondness, sometimes with regret, and often with a complicated mixture of both.

It got me thinking.

One of my biggest reflections was how differently memory feels when you’ve grown up in care.

For me, I have a huge catalogue of horrific memories. I can recall moments of fear, instability and pain with remarkable clarity. They seem to sit right at the front of the filing cabinet, ready to jump out at any moment.

What I don’t seem to have is a balancing number of good memories.

Maybe that’s true for lots of people. Human beings seem wired to hold on to the difficult things. Evolution probably had something to do with that. Remembering danger helped us survive. Remembering joy was perhaps a luxury.

But I often wonder whether that imbalance is even greater when you’ve experienced childhood trauma.

I wonder whether growing up in environments filled with uncertainty, fear or loss changes the way memories are stored. Whether the brain becomes so focused on survival that it captures every threat in high definition while the good moments slip quietly through the gaps.

I’m sure someone much cleverer than me, could explain the science behind it.

All I know is how it feels.

And sometimes it feels as though my memory lane has an awful lot of difficult stops along the way.

The Memories I Wish I Had

What I find myself longing for isn’t necessarily grand achievements or extraordinary moments.

I would love to have a catalogue of the good times.

I would love to have more memories of ordinary times.

The afternoons where nothing special happened.

The people who made me laugh.

The birthdays.

The random trips out.

The favourite toys.

The meals we enjoyed.

The school projects we were proud of.

The people who cared.

The things that made us feel safe.

The everyday moments that most families never think twice about because they’re busy living them.

When you grow up moving between homes, schools or carers, those ordinary moments can disappear surprisingly quickly. Photos get lost. Possessions get left behind. Records are incomplete. Stories are forgotten. People drift apart.

Sometimes it can feel as though parts of your childhood simply vanished.

Why Memory Boxes Matter

This is one of the reasons I care so much about memory boxes for children in care.

A memory box isn’t just a box of things.

It’s evidence.

Evidence that a child existed beyond case files and assessments.

Evidence that they laughed, learned, celebrated and belonged.

A ticket stub from a day out might seem insignificant to an adult, but years later it can become proof of a happy memory that would otherwise have disappeared.

A photograph can remind someone what they looked like, who was important to them and where they felt safe.

A school certificate can remind a child that they achieved something despite everything they were facing.

These small items help build a more complete story.

Not just a story about what happened to someone, but a story about who they are.

Research and guidance from organisations including https://corambaaf.org.uk and https://www.careleavers.com has highlighted the importance of life story work, identity and helping care-experienced children understand their own histories. Memory keeping is a vital part of that process.

Because identity isn’t built from trauma alone.

It is built from experiences, relationships, interests, achievements and moments of connection.

The Potential of Digital Memory Boxes

Today we also have opportunities that previous generations never had.

Digital memory boxes can sit alongside traditional ones.

Imagine having a secure collection containing photographs, videos, voice notes, school reports, drawings, certificates and messages from people who cared about you.

Imagine being able to hear the voice of a foster carer who made a difference.

Imagine having photographs from each placement instead of wondering what those years looked like.

Imagine having a timeline of your life that belongs to you, wherever you move.

Some local authorities and organisations are already exploring digital life story work because they recognise that memories are precious and physical items are sometimes lost during moves and transitions.

Digital memory keeping will never replace a well-loved teddy bear, a birthday card or a treasured photograph held in your hand. But it can help preserve memories that might otherwise disappear forever.

Creating New Memories

As I’ve got older, I’ve realised something else.

While I can’t go back and create the memories I wish I’d had, I can create new ones.

I can take photographs.

I can write things down.

I can celebrate ordinary days.

I can keep reminders of moments that matter.

I can actively collect evidence that my life contains more than the difficult chapters.

Because when my wonderful brain decides to take a walk down memory lane, I don’t want every stop to be filled with pain.

I want reminders of kindness.

I want reminders of laughter.

I want reminders that life contained joy too.

Perhaps that’s something all of us could benefit from.

Not because we ignore the hard things.

Not because we deny what happened.

But because our stories deserve balance.

And so do we.

To everyone doing life story work, creating memory boxes, saving photographs, keeping drawings, preserving keepsakes and helping children hold on to their stories: please keep going.

It isn’t always easy.

Sometimes it might feel small.

Sometimes it might feel insignificant.

But I am certain it changes lives.

❤️