Can You Really Choose Your Memories?
What we want for the future doesn’t diminish what we already have.
It’s so easy to slip into a mindset of lack. Focusing on what’s missing. Focusing on what hasn’t come yet or what feels just out of reach.
Lately, I’ve found myself there. Caught up in discontent, fixated on what I don’t have instead of cherishing all that I do. The people who love me. The community that uplifts me. The resources that, while not always perfect, are available to me.
Focusing on what’s helps me look forward. It gives me something to pursue, something to fix, something to become. And while that drive can be motivating and it’s frankly even admired in many spaces. I’m learning there's a quiet necessity in looking back, too.
Reflection doesn’t have to be a pause from progress—it’s often the most direct path to presence, clarity, and gratitude.
Truthfully, I’ve never seen much value in the past. It always felt like an old tool—worn out, useless, already spent. But today, something shifted. I opened my photo gallery and scrolled through June and July, just intending to post something light on social media. What I found stopped me. My heart softened, my breath caught. I saw life.
I saw my son’s unfiltered joy as he played with his cousins and friends. I saw the sweetness in the way he kissed me, the tight hugs he gave just because. His excitement over his Spiderman slippers. The way he tumbled around the backyard with other boys like it was his personal jungle gym. The funny, fussy moment when sand first met his toes. The look of awe on his face when ocean waves hit him for the first time. I watched him in a video saying, “That’s so cool,” with paint on his cheeks and a bubble gun in his hand, the foam drifting up into the summer sky.
I saw my dogs, my quiet shadows. Their loyalty as they curled up by my feet during long work hours. Their joy when my son came home, how they greeted him like they’d waited a lifetime even though they just saw him that morning.
I remembered the warmth I felt when my brother and sister-in-law cooked for me in their home. The peace I experienced when I laughed with them over the silliest things. The late-night conversations about our dreams and what we want for our kids. I saw my sister-in-law’s love—not loud, not flashy, but present—in the way she sat beside me as I cradled her youngest child. I remembered watching my nephew’s basketball game and feeling like I was watching my own childhood reflected back to me.
I remembered the joy of touching my close friend’s belly—knowing she’d soon be part of this boy-mom tribe with me. The swelling in my chest as I celebrated her new beginning.
I saw my work. The coworkers who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. The impact I had during a mental health event. The curiosity I helped spark by initiating real, sometimes uncomfortable conversations. I saw the people who come to me for insight, support, direction. The subtle, steady waves I’ve been making, waves that I had doubted existed. I saw the mentors at work, experienced the clarity their conversations brought, and felt the tightness in my chest ease as they helped me get out of my head.
Then I saw my community. The sisters I’ve gathered along the way. The friends who ride every wave with me. The women I’ve met in the fitness space who’ve made me feel so deeply seen by simply inviting me out, an impact that they have probably not realized this small gesture had. That’s been the newest joy—meeting women like me who just want to hold space for each other, lift each other, remind each other of our power, and to laugh with one another.
And just like that, I saw the past 60 days differently.
We can’t rewrite the past, but we can choose how it shapes us, how we carry it, and what we let it mean.
A mentor of mine recently said, “We can choose our memories.” I remember resisting that. Internally, I disagreed—how can we choose what happened, especially when what happened hurt? Pain doesn’t just evaporate. Wounds don’t just vanish because we want them to. Sometimes the harm that people cause lingers, repeating itself until we name it, face it, heal it.
But today… I hear that sentence differently.
My mentor wasn’t telling me to ignore the pain or pretend the hard stuff doesn’t exist. They were offering something softer: a choice. A way of seeing the fullness of a moment or a relationship or a space. The good and the growth. The ache and the beauty.
Gratitude doesn’t erase the work, the chaos, or the waiting—it simply invites us to witness the harmony that coexists with it.
People are flawed. Environments are imperfect. But if I choose to remain connected to someone or something, then that choice says something. It says it aligns with who we are, who we desire to be, what we value. That choice is the mirror.
What do you see when you choose to notice the joy a child brings, rather than the exhaustion of parenting? What changes when you focus on the impact a space has made in your life, instead of just the labor it requires to stay in it?
We are deeply blessed to choose our circles—the family we build, the friendships we nurture, the energy we let in. That’s sacred. The past is a teacher. And today, what began as a quick scroll became something more—it became a reflection steeped in gratitude.
Looking back didn’t make me stuck; it grounded me. In many ways, it felt like a homecoming.
If you’ve never been to an HBCU Homecoming, let me describe it to you. It’s more than just a football game or a weekend event. It’s a sacred return. A reunion of hearts and histories. It’s music echoing through campus yards, old friends linking arms, new generations dancing in the footprints of those who came before them. It’s celebration, legacy, healing, and belonging all wrapped in one.
And in that same spirit, this reflection felt like a return to myself. A remembering of who I am beneath the to-do lists and the striving. A reunion with my joy, my people, my purpose. It reminded me that even in seasons of waiting, I’m surrounded by the very things that anchor me.
We don’t always need to move forward to feel progress. Sometimes we just need to come home—to ourselves, our stories, our communities.
The to-do list is still long.
The work backlog hasn’t vanished.
Finances still needs tending, the car still needs fixing, the dreams of stability, creativity, and freedom for me and my son are still very much alive.
What we want for the future doesn’t diminish what we already have.
Looking back doesn’t keep us stuck—it anchors us. It reminds us that while the future may call, the present still sings.