Memory isn't promised

Most people think I come to Portugal to rest.

I don’t.

I come here and I work harder than I do in England — because half my life gets temporarily removed.

No cooking. No cleaning. Less logistical chaos. Less “mum mode” 24/7.

I get to be a daughter again. And that shift does something to me. It gives me space to do the life projects I never have time to do back home: admin, organising, building my “life OS”… and the thing I’m obsessed with more than most people realise:

Collecting Memories!!!!

Yesterday I spent the entire day with my grandmother.

She’s 91. She’s beautiful. Honestly, she looks amazing. The kind of woman who makes you think, “How is she 91?” She’s still elegant. Still gorgeous. Still her.

And yet… her mind isn’t the same.

The fact that she recognised me felt like a win. A real one.

But I sat there with what felt like 20,000 questions in my head — the kind of questions you don’t ask when you’re younger because you assume there will be time.

How did you meet my grandpa?

What were you like at 20?

What did your parents teach you that you didn’t even realise you were passing down?

What did you survive that nobody knows about?

What did you love? What did you regret? What did you laugh at?

And I couldn’t ask.

Not because I didn’t want to.

Because she couldn’t answer.

She didn’t remember.

And I don’t know how to explain the specific kind of sadness that is — the frustration of being so close to someone’s entire story, and still not being able to reach it.

What makes it even more surreal is that she had a twin sister.

Her twin lived next door. Same generation. Same roots. Same family stories.

But the twin was the opposite.

Her body was fragile… but her mind was sharp as fuck.

Sharp enough to remember my mum’s phone number by heart — and my mum isn’t even related to her by blood. That’s just how clear her mind was. She remembered everything. Names, details, connections, stories.

And then one day she just… died. A few months ago. A shock.

So now I’m watching this strange split-screen of ageing in real life:

One twin: physically strong, mentally fading.

The other: mentally razor-sharp, physically failing.

And it’s messing with me, because it’s a reminder of something most of us avoid until it’s too late:

your memories are not guaranteed.

Holding grandma / great grandma yesterday <3

The film that haunted me (and why I’ve been “funny” about memory for years)

There’s a film called Still Alice — Julianne Moore, Alzheimer’s.

It stayed with me. Not in a “sad movie” way. In a this could happen way.

There’s Alzheimer’s in my family. So the film didn’t feel like entertainment. It felt like a warning shot.

And I think that’s why, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been “funny” about writing.

I’ve written letters to myself for years. I’ve kept private projects. I’ve collected stories like they’re heirlooms.

I’ve had my travel blog for almost 15 years — not because I’m trying to impress anyone, but because I’ve lived an incredible life and I genuinely believe one of the worst things that could happen to me is this:

forgetting how incredible my life was.

Not the highlights for Instagram. The real stuff. The texture. The lessons. The people. The tiny moments that made me who I am.

And yesterday, sitting with my grandmother, I felt the urgency of it in my bones.

Because when memory goes, it doesn’t just take facts.

It takes access.

It takes the stories you meant to ask about.

It takes the answers you assumed would be waiting.

It takes the “one day I’ll sit down and…” moments.

And suddenly “one day” is gone.

We treat memory like it’s automatic. It’s not.

Here’s the provocative part:

We spend our lives documenting work.

Emails. Reports. KPIs. Meeting notes. Performance reviews.

But we don’t document ourselves.

We don’t capture the stories that matter. We don’t record the people who raised us. We don’t preserve the weird little family details that make us feel rooted.

We act like memory will just… stay.

And then we’re shocked when it doesn’t.

What I do (my memory OS) — not because I’m disciplined, but because I’m human

I’m not sharing this because I think everyone needs to journal every day.

I’m sharing it because I want to normalise something:

it’s never too late to start saving pieces of your life.

I have a system. A “life OS.” It’s not rigid — it’s supportive. It’s a way of catching my own life as it moves.

Here’s what it looks like:

Daily (tiny, doable)

Not “Dear Diary.” More like a quick capture:

- What happened today that I don’t want to forget?

- What did I learn?

- What am I proud of (even if it’s small)?

- What am I grateful for — specifically? (Not “my life.” What moment, what person, what tiny win?)

Because gratitude is also memory — it’s proof you were paying attention while life was happening.

- What’s one moment that made me feel like myself?

Sometimes it’s three lines. Sometimes it’s a page. The point is: I leave breadcrumbs.

Weekly (calibration)

This is where I zoom out:

- What drained me? What energised me?

- What mattered this week?

- What did I avoid?

- What do I want to carry into next week?

It’s less about productivity and more about pattern recognition.

Monthly (meaning-making)

This is where life becomes a story instead of a blur:

- What changed in me this month?

- What did I handle that I would’ve struggled with a year ago?

- Who did I become closer to?

- What do I want to remember about this season?

Yearly (legacy)

This is the big one — the one I wish more people did:

- What were the defining moments of this year?

- What did I survive?

- What did I build?

- What did I let go of?

- What do I want my future self (or my child, or my grandchildren) to know?

Because here’s what I want — and I’m saying this with my whole chest:

I don’t want my future grandchildren to sit beside me one day, full of questions, and leave with nothing.

I want there to be a treasure box.

Not necessarily a literal box (even tho I do have one)— but something they can open and hear me in my own words.

What I believed.

What I loved.

What I learned the hard way.

What I was like when I was young.

What I wanted them to know.

This isn’t about being sentimental. It’s about being prepared.

I’m not writing this to be dramatic.

I’m writing it because yesterday was a privilege — and it was also a warning.

My grandmother is still here. I got to hold her hand. I got to look after her. I got to be with her.

And I also had to accept that some stories are now locked away, not because anyone chose that… but because life is life.

So if you take anything from this, let it be this:

Don’t wait until you’re “ready” to start capturing your life.

Don’t wait for the perfect notebook.

Don’t wait for the perfect mood.

Don’t wait for retirement.

Don’t wait for grief to make you urgent.

Start small.

Write once a week. Once a month. Once a year.

Ask your parents or grandparents one question and record the answer.

Save one story.

Write one letter to your future self.

Because memory is precious — and it’s not promised.

And if this is a topic you’d like me to go deeper on, I do have prompts and a full structure I use (daily/weekly/monthly/yearly). I’m happy to share more.

For now, I’ll just say this:

Yesterday reminded me why I write.

Not for content. Not for likes.

For legacy. For truth. For the parts of life that deserve to survive us.

Love,

Emma