I have almost no memories of my childhood.
Only fragments live inside me: a corner of a house, a voice, a smell. The rest is empty.
I spent a lifetime wondering if something was wrong with me, if I had a memory problem, or if I simply never knew how to pay attention to my own life.
I only have two memories from before I was ten.
One from kindergarten, when I was invited to the birthday party of a girl from a wealthier family who lived next door to my grandmother. My parents forced me to take one of my younger brothers with me, even though it was a “girls only” party. I felt ashamed to show up with him, his hat tied under his chin, so I told him the birthday girl’s mother was a witch who didn’t allow boys in the house. I left him at the gate, and my grandparents saw him from the window. What happened after isn’t important here.
The second memory is from when I was about six, sledding for the first time on my street with someone who “knew how to drive.” A rare event. My maternal grandfather, whom I loved most in the world, walked several kilometers in freezing weather to take me to the Christmas customs. But I chose to stay with the children and sled. He went back home alone.
I asked myself why these memories, and what they have in common. I was shocked to realize they are both events that have tortured me with guilt my whole life, and for which I still cannot forgive myself today.
The few memories I have from later are also, I dare say, almost always tied to guilt. (I recently found out this is a recognized psychological mechanism.)
I have memories of being scolded for not doing something well enough, of making mistakes and hurting someone I loved, of feeling like I abandoned my younger siblings every time I left home, of not being able to eat even a piece of candy alone.
I don’t recall moments of innocent play, of freedom, of safety.
What comes back are only feelings of having to be different than I was, or of it being my fault for… anything.
Back then I couldn’t tell the difference between making a mistake and being a mistake, so guilt turned into shame.
For a long time, I judged myself for this.
I told myself maybe I didn’t know how to see the good parts, maybe I cultivated only the negative.
I even told myself I was focusing on these things just because trauma is so fashionable, and that I was exaggerating everything.
I once heard that if you don’t remember your childhood, it means you survived it.
And with time, working intensely with myself, I understood that the absence of memories is not a conscious choice. It is a survival mechanism. My brain erased what was too heavy for me then. Not to punish me, but because it was the only way I could go on.
When there was noise, tension, and too many responsibilities for a child, my brain pressed pause. It stopped storing, it stopped building coherent memories. I lived, but nothing stayed behind, as if everything slipped through an invisible sieve.
I was left with gaps, but also with feelings.
My body remembers what my mind erased. My heart tightens at certain smells, my muscles stiffen at certain voices, tears come without me knowing why.
Now I know my missing memories are not a flaw, but a story in themselves.
A story of how a child found survival strategies.
Of how forgetting can be a form of protection. Even if, later, as an adult, I was left wondering who I am and where I come from.
This emptiness from childhood became a kind of inner silence.
A silence that sometimes hurts, because I cannot say: “There, I felt loved.” “There, I was safe.” “There, I belonged.”
What I can say is:
“There, I learned not to disturb.”
“There, I learned to be silent.”
“There, I learned that if I made mistakes, I was not enough.”
“There, I was guilty.”
“There, I had things that others didn’t.”
Today, I try not to run away from this emptiness anymore.
I try to see it as proof of how I endured.
The absence of memories does not make me less whole, but tells the story of how much I had to protect myself.
And if all that remains are traces of guilt, it doesn’t mean I am guilt itself.
It only means I grew up in a place where guilt was placed on me, even when it wasn’t mine.
Or where I placed it on myself, because that was less painful than blaming the important people in my life.
To compensate for the guilt, I developed a life built on performance and control. It was an attempt to balance the scales: if I did enough, if I didn’t make mistakes, maybe guilt would quiet down. But I eventually learned that perfection can never be reached, no matter the superhuman effort. And it comes with exhaustion, burnout, and the belief that “it’s never enough.”
Guilt has made (and still makes) it so that when I choose myself, I feel like I’m betraying others. It becomes hard to say “no,” to set boundaries, to choose what brings me joy without feeling like someone else is paying the price. The child who left her brother at the gate or her grandfather alone in the cold learned that “if I choose for myself, I hurt someone else.”
That same guilt made me always take responsibility for other people’s emotions. If someone is sad, angry, or disappointed, my first thought is that it’s my fault. This made me give more than I had, justify myself, erase myself, just so the other person would be okay. It led me into unbalanced relationships where I carried others’ emotions as if they were mine to bear. But it also pushed me toward writing, where guilt is no longer just a burden, but a story of healing.
Slowly, I learn not to chase after memories but to allow myself to build a present without that sharp guilt, without shame, without fear.
Maybe the story of my childhood will never fully reconstruct itself.
But the story of my life now begins with the understanding that I was never the problem.
I am not broken.
And it is not my fault that I grew up believing love must be earned through guilt and silence.
I no longer blame the people around me who were also caught in their wounds and helplessness,
but neither will I carry burdens that are not mine.