What If I Cannot Remember Details?
Listen to the Full Episode:
Sometimes, We Just Can’t Remember the Details
In episode 2, we’re dealing with a topic that affects everyone: What do you do when you just can’t remember the details? For example, I was standing in the bedroom the other day, holding a ceramic jar I’ve had since college. For five decades, I’ve used it as a bookend and tossed odds and ends into it without a second thought. But that day, I stared at it, trying to summon a memory. I know there’s a story in there somewhere. I got it from a college girlfriend who made it in ceramics class, but I don’t recall the circumstances. What was her name? How did we meet? Did I date her? Why did she give me the jar? The details? Fuzzy. Gone. Just a ghost of a feeling.
And I began to wonder: what do folks do when their memories aren’t clear? When there’s just a vague feeling, but not a full scene?
This episode is for anyone who’s stared at an old object or photo and thought, “I used to remember that.”
Memory Gaps
In this episode, we’re going to talk about a way to deal with memory gaps. Whether you’ve got gaps in your childhood or entire years that feel like static, we’ll talk about why that’s normal—and what you can do about it.
We’ll touch on how memories work, why they fade or get fuzzy, and I’ll share a trick to help you uncover what’s still buried under the surface. This isn’t a deep-dive; there are future episodes on the topic. But today’s telling will get you started.
I’ll also answer a listener’s question about dealing with hazy childhood memories—and end with a writing prompt that just might jog something loose.
You Don’t Remember Events the Way They Happened
So, why do we have trouble remembering details of past events? Long-term memory is like a patchwork quilt you keep stitching and restitching over the years. You don’t remember events the way they happened; you remember the last time you remembered them. That’s why a story you’ve told a dozen times keeps getting tighter, funnier, or more dramatic. Every time you pull it out, you’re shaping it just a little. And sometimes, the parts that don’t get retold start to fade.
For example, you might remember the feeling of riding your bike down a hill, but not the name of the street. Or you know you went to summer camp, but the only thing you can picture is the mess hall—or maybe just the smell of it. That’s normal. Memory doesn’t stay fixed. It grows and warps with you. And that’s not a flaw—it’s an opportunity. Because memoir isn’t about perfect recall—it’s about emotional truth. What stuck with you? What changed the way you saw the world? That’s the story worth writing.
Personal Story: A Struggle to Remember
A few weeks ago, I was sorting through my memorabilia box, trying to make sense of it; get it organized. As I shuffled through photos, certificates, and souvenirs, I found a photo of me standing with a group of people in front of a restaurant.
I had no idea who those people were, or where the photo was taken, or what I was doing there. That’s happened to you, right?
Now, I’ve traveled a lot, so this pic could have been taken anywhere. Why didn’t I remember it? Clearly, the event was important enough that I wanted to document it with a photo.
So I took a different approach: I stopped trying to remember the event—and instead, I started describing the photo, hoping it would trigger something.
In looking at it, I saw that I still had most of my hair, so I must have been in my 30s. Yes, the clothing in the group seemed to support that guess: we looked like the cast of a Disco movie: shirts with big, pointed collars, flared pants, loud patterns. There were no women in the group, so it wasn’t a social affair. No suits and ties, either, so it wasn’t a business meeting. The restaurant was a Mom & Pop type place with an Italian name, and the reflection in the glass showed a busy city street, not a suburban parking lot.
As I continued to look at the photo, I remembered: it was a Piano Technician’s Guild trip to the Steinway factory in New York City. With that trigger, it all came back to me: the early morning drive from DE to NY, the thrill of watching Steinways being built, the smell of lacquer and wood, and the sounds of saws and hammers and tuning. I even remembered what I ate for lunch in that restaurant: ravioli with garlic bread and Pelligrino. I even remembered a few names: I picked out Tony, and Larry, and Vince, and a couple of others.
All from a single image. I had forgotten all about that trip, but it was a great experience and I loved reliving the memory.
So here’s the truth: memory isn’t a filing cabinet. It’s more like a trail of breadcrumbs. You don’t always get the whole story in one bite—you follow the crumbs.
Reflection
It’s totally normal to forget things. Especially childhood events. Our brains prioritize survival, not scrapbook-worthy detail. Add in trauma, stress, or just time—and you’ve got memories that are buried, fragmented, or out of context.
But those memories? They’re often still in there. Hiding behind a smell, a song, a texture.
Sometimes you don’t need to recall the full event—you just need to recall how it felt. Emotion is often the key that unlocks the door.
Key Takeaway
So here’s the big idea for today:
Don’t chase perfect recall. Chase resonance.
Instead of asking “What happened?” look for connections. Try asking, “What did it feel like?” “What did it sound like, or smell like?”
Start with the texture of a quilt, the sound of a screen door, your mother’s handwriting, or a photograph.
Start small. Start soft. Start sensory.
Listener Mailbox
This week’s question comes from Kevin in Toledo, who writes:
“Wayne, I can’t remember much from my childhood—what do I do? There are just big blank spots. Can you write a memoir if you don’t remember everything?”
Kevin, let me reassure you right out of the gate: yes. It’s absolutely possible.
Most people don’t remember everything. Not even close. Memoir is not about total recall. It’s about emotional truth.
If your memories are patchy, here are five things to try:
- Use sensory triggers. Smell a childhood shampoo. Taste a snack you used to eat. Sometimes our bodies remember before our brains do.
- Try associative memory. Can’t remember the layout of your childhood home? Describe the walk to the bus stop. Allow your mind to wander into the house from there.
- Use other people’s stories. Talk to a sibling or cousin. Often, their memories will light up your own. Just be okay with different versions. Memoir is about your perspective, not a documentary.
- Start with emotion. Pick a feeling you remember vividly—shame, pride, fear—and ask yourself: when was the first time I felt this way?
- Don’t try too hard. If you just can’t remember, don’t sweat it. Memories will come in their own time—or not. Our most readily available memories are attached to strong emotions: joy, sorrow, pain. Memoires may be blocked because they are too painful to remember, or because the event wasn’t very memorable to begin with. Either way, do the best you can and move on. Don’t get stuck.
And Kevin, here’s one last thing: writing helps remembering. Even if you start with fiction-like guesses, your brain will likely fill in the blanks as you write.
So don’t wait for perfect recall. Just start. One breadcrumb at a time.
Prompt of the Week
Here’s your prompt this week:
“Describe the earliest place you remember being afraid.”
Don’t worry if you don’t remember the full scene. Start with what you do know: the time of day, who was with you, what you were wearing, or what the air smelled like. Let your pen fill in the rest. You might be surprised by what shows up.
If you’re stuck, try writing it as if you’re telling a friend over coffee. No pressure to get it perfect.
Just open the door and let the story step forward.