Reflections on memory and identity:
As I get older, which is itself a silly statement, seeing as I am only 22 years old, my relationship with my own memory has changed quite a bit. I have more wisdom and experience than when I was in high school, or even than when I was 19 or 21, and yet I feel I know less. The more time I’ve had to ponder who I am and my place in the world, the more information I feel I lack. The more I learn, the less I know.
But what does that really mean? If identity is a sum of experience, and experience is only as reliable as my ability to recall it, then how much of who I am is built on something solid? I used to assume that my memory was a faithful record—flawed in small ways, sure, but essentially true. Now, I realize it is something much more fluid, and that fluidity makes me question everything I believe about myself.
I don’t think it was even on my radar a few years ago that my memories were fallible. I would have trouble understanding arguments with my girlfriend Christine where our stories wouldn’t line up, and she would claim I represented something differently than I remembered. Particularly in 2020, we found ourselves in a long-distance situation during the COVID pandemic. Naturally, this led to a great deal of individual unhappiness, and thus, arguments. We would have these agonizingly long fights with no real point or solution. At the time, I remember thinking I was bad at arguing, and perhaps I was being gaslit. This may have been true, but what I believe was equally possible is that neither of us could admit wrongdoing very well. We would warp our own memories to make ourselves the protagonist—the victor trying to discern mistruths and fallacies, while never committing these atrocities ourselves.
As I have gained the confidence and critical thinking to admit error, this phenomenon has become quite apparent to me. I, like everyone, must be the protagonist of my own story. My brain is willing to lie, deceive itself, and in some cases, create whole memories to support this conclusion. In a way, that realization is a powerful one—it aids me in objective thought and forces me to be skeptical of my own recollections. But in another very real sense, it does nothing. Even knowing that I will do it won’t stop the subconscious conclusions and editing of my memories. Shameful or painful things will be repressed eventually, despite however much I try to reflect on them, and memories of my success will be pushed to the forefront.
For example, near the end of December, my partner of about a month tried to ghost me on their trip to Mexico. They sent me a text that read, “We’re done,” with a middle finger emoji, and a peace sign, and blocked me. After their trip concluded, we did end up meeting to talk, and had a proper breakup, but for a few weeks, whenever someone would ask me, I’d say that our breakup was mutual. It wasn’t that I consciously wanted to lie or misrepresent the situation, but rather that I honestly couldn’t deal with the idea that I got dumped, so I lied to myself.
So what does that mean for my identity? If I am built on a collection of victories and rewritten losses, then how much of my self-image is based on reality? Perhaps the version of myself that I present to the world—this confident, ever-learning, self-aware person—is a product of convenient storytelling, not an honest history. To that point, even while writing this, I found myself unable to add any anecdotes I was truly ashamed of. Perhaps I don’t truly know myself, because I can never fully grasp the unedited version of my own past.
Knowing about this phenomenon brings me a mix of emotions. On one hand, I feel a certain pride that I am able to recognize something that many people ignore. On the other, it brings me anxiety. If I cannot trust my own memories, then surely I cannot fully trust the conclusions my mind comes to. And if I cannot trust my own mind, then what does that mean for my sense of self?
I could almost long for the ignorance of unwavering self-trust. Almost. But I know that ignorance has its own dangers. I’ve seen what happens when people believe in their own stories too completely—how conviction, without self-questioning, can harden into something dangerous. My grandparents, for example, sit watching Fox News for hours each day, taking the casters’ words as gospel. I’ve seen firsthand how easy it is to accept a single version of reality when it aligns with what you want to believe. It’s a reminder that while my own self-narrative may be flawed, at least I am questioning it.
And yet, even knowing all this, I still rely on my memories to tell me who I am. What else do I have? I am built from the stories I tell myself—just as everyone is. Maybe identity is less about truth and more about continuity. Maybe what matters is not whether my memories are perfect, but whether they are mine. Whether they build toward a consistent narrative I can live with. Perhaps the only truth lies in uncertainty. The more I learn the less I know.
