“how I remember it.”

Many times in my life, I’ve had what I like to call a cinematic experience. It’s those moments you look back on later and think, “If they ever made a movie about my life, that scene would for sure be in it.”

Sometimes, when I’m lucky enough, I can feel it while it’s happening. I’ll be in a moment and know, without a doubt, that it will live in my mind forever.

…confessing to my high school best friend that I was in love with him.
…tripping at that music festival, realizing how much agency I have in my wellbeing.
…asking that French bellboy if he wanted to kiss me.

I don’t think I’ll ever turn my life into a movie. The closest I’ll come to that, I think, is the manuscript of my self-help book, where I reference personal anecdotes to help illustrate each lesson. And that…well, that feels like kind of a shame, you know? Like creating a piece of art that no one will see. Like seeing a shooting star, looking around, and realizing you were the only one to witness it.

Previously, I would hoard these moments. I’d hide them, keep them to myself, and never tell anyone else how much they meant to me, or how beautiful I thought they were. It was some kind of traumatic response, I think — a way to protect myself from judgement and vulnerability. It’s a tender thing to show something to world and say, “This thing happened to me, and I think it’s really special!”

But I’ve learned something about myself over the years: I want to be seen. I want to be known. I want people to know about the beautiful things I’ve experienced, the stupid things I’ve done, and the way they fuel my very existence.

These memories…they feel like art. And art thrives on being shared.

I won’t lie to you: memory is an imperfect thing. Usually, when we’re remembering something, we’re not remembering the actual event — we’re remembering the story we tell about it. And so, over time, stories shift to match the narrative we like to tell. When I remember that moment on the bridge at my boarding school — the moment I admitted to my feelings for my best friend — it felt like a Jane Austen novel. The tension, the pining…it was positively cinematic.

Is that really what happened? Probably not. But it’s how I remember it.

And really, what difference does it make? To quote something my character said in D&D this week: “just because something isn’t real, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

Remembering these moments as I do, accurate or not…it serves me. It allows me to look back on them as beautiful and full of meaning. And that means I can look back on my life as beautiful and full of meaning.

Who could ever tell me that’s a bad thing?