Posted on August 6, 2025

Have you ever tried to piece together your past, only to find that half the puzzle pieces have vanished?

It’s a strange thing, memory. We take it for granted until it’s gone. We assume it’s always going to be there for us – like a loyal dog, wagging its tail at the mention of a familiar face or beloved place. But what happens when that loyal companion simply… doesn’t come back?

This isn’t some thought experiment or hypothetical musing over coffee. This is my reality. And, perhaps, it might be yours too – or someone you love. I lost a significant portion of my memory following a ruptured brain aneurysm and a subsequent subarachnoid haemorrhage. The man I was, in many ways, disappeared that day.

I thought, at first, I could just soldier on (I was good at that once) and start afresh. New memories. New me. Sorted, right?

Not quite.

Because memories aren’t just about the past. They’re the blueprint of who we are. And when that blueprint gets torn up, you can’t help but ask: Who am I now?

A Trip Back, Forwards

Today, I found myself seeking answers in an unlikely place – the past. Or rather, the location of the past.

I decided to visit Oulton Broad in Suffolk – a little place etched into the fragments of my remaining memories. It was a coin toss between a few old haunts, but the Broad won out. It often did in my younger days.

As we arrived and parked at Nicholas Everitt Park, something unexpected happened. A strange, fragile kind of magic.

Wheeling past the dinghy park by the yacht club, I was suddenly a boy again – sunburnt, barefoot, shouting across the water to my brother. We lived a very Swallows and Amazons sort of life on the Broads back then. Sailing, crewing, laughing until our sides ached. Not a care in the world – except maybe whether the wind would hold for the race.

Some of those memories are crystal clear, while others are little more than emotional echoes. And they matter more now than they ever did – because they are among the few that survived.

My brother didn't. He was killed in a road accident many years ago. That wound has never softened. Time, as it turns out, doesn’t heal all wounds. It just gives you more experience at carrying them.

Fish, Chips, and 50p Nostalgia

The children started grumbling – as children do – about being hungry. A thought flared in my brain like an old filament bulb: The Mermaid Fish & Chip Shop.

If you’re from the area, you’ll know it. If not, imagine the sort of place where you could once get chips and a can of Coke for 50p. We paid £33 this time. Inflation is cruel, isn’t it?

Back at the park, chips in hand, I lowered myself from my wheelchair onto the grass. That simple movement, so mundane in its effort, felt momentous in meaning. I sat where I had once played football, hung from swings, and planned pirate adventures. Now I watched my children playing in the same park, on the same grass.

And here’s the strange part – I couldn’t remember them being born.

That’s a hard sentence to write. Harder still to admit. But it’s the truth.

Imagine looking in the mirror expecting to see a 36-year-old man and being greeted by a stranger in his fifties. Distressing doesn’t even begin to cover it.

So to be sat in a park I once played in, watching children I somehow helped create, with decades of memory wiped away between those two events… well, if that’s not disorientating, I don’t know what is.

Sausage and Chips Served in a White Takeaway Box

![Image of sausage and chips served in a white takeaway box resting on grass beside a wheelchair wheel, during a sunny picnic in the park.]

Caffeine and Carp

Naturally, the next step was coffee. My brain might be damaged, but it still knows when it needs caffeine.

We found a small café near the Harbour Master’s office, overlooking the water. I sat, sipping coffee, watching people fish – just like we used to. There was a father teaching his sons how to cast. That hit me hard.

Our dad taught us to fish. He endured our endless chatter, our stubbornness, our wild ambitions. Having grown up in Saudi Arabia and Oman, we were more accustomed to king mackerel, barracuda, even the odd shark. So when someone in Suffolk told me a 3lb perch was a good catch, I felt personally offended. (Still do, if I’m honest.)

But it wasn’t about the size of the fish. It was about the time spent together. That lesson, at least, hasn’t been forgotten.

A Glass to the Man I Was

Ice creams followed – a reward for the children (and possibly myself). As we made our way back to the car, the heat had melted away their energy, leaving the car journey blessedly quiet. My wife read on her Kindle. I drove, reflecting.

No dramatic flashbacks. No sudden memory miracles. No cinematic “aha” moment.

But I had a good day. A meaningful one. And that, frankly, is enough.

I’ve accepted that the old me is gone – or rather, in hiding. I still grieve for the man I was. But I also raise a glass (a cold cider in the garden, in this case) to the man I am becoming. He’s not who I expected to be, but he’s doing his best with what he’s got.

And today reminded me of something very important:

💡 If your brain won’t remember, then write it down. Take photos. Keep a diary. Document the details. Your memories may fade – but your records can last a lifetime.

I use an app called Dairium, where I can attach photos and videos to my daily entries. It’s not for everyone – and no, I’m not about to blog my entire life (I like to keep some readers). But it helps. Immensely.

So, What Now?

I won’t get back the lost memories. I won’t wake up tomorrow with all the missing years downloaded back into my skull like a Netflix box set. That’s fantasy. But I can live a full, vibrant life moving forward – and I can cherish the fragments I do remember, even more dearly.

If you’re struggling with memory loss, identity, or grief for a life you no longer recognise – please know, you’re not alone. You may not be able to rebuild the exact life you had, but you can build something beautiful with what’s left.

Here’s your takeaway:

➡️ Cherish your memories – but don’t live only in them.
➡️ Record what matters – photos, words, voice notes, even scribbles on napkins.
➡️ Celebrate the self you are today – not just the one you used to be.

Home now, I sit in the garden with a glass of cider in hand. The sun is low, the sky quiet. And while I can’t go back to who I was, I can choose to go forward with purpose.

Here’s to the memories we’ve lost – and the new ones we’re still brave enough to make.