What is your best childhood memory?
Finally, an easy question—one that should only require remembering good moments and writing them down...
Easy? Not really. And once again, almost every day, these questions I’m reflecting on end up making me cry.
I’ll start anyway with a few memories that came back to me:
When I was around 12 or 13 years old, there was the final of my region’s football championship.
It was the first time my small team had ever reached a final.
We dyed our hair in the colors of our club.
It was a very close match that ended in a penalty shootout, and I scored my penalty.
We won and celebrated the way we should have, with our friends. It was amazing.
I also remember the holidays I spent at my aunt’s house—my second mother, the most wonderful woman.
When I was younger, around 4 years old I think, I have an image of my mother walking into my classroom with a basket full of sweets and other things to celebrate my birthday.
To remember these things, I had to dig very deep, and at first I couldn’t really see many happy moments.
I never experienced anything truly terrible. My parents were not bad people, we never lacked money, and yet I am realizing how much I was missing the most important thing.
When I first tried to answer this question, I thought about important moments like Christmas and birthdays, for example...
Unfortunately, when it comes to Christmas, I don’t have many happy memories. At best, they were moments that were quickly over; at worst, I remember seeing my parents arguing and breaking plates.
I never lacked gifts—I was spoiled in that regard—but I always lived in the atmosphere created by a mother who struggled with anxiety and depression.
Did I ever truly experience safety, a reassuring presence, or a peaceful and comforting environment?
I don’t really think so.
My birthdays were quite similar.
For example, I have no memory of ever organizing a birthday party at home and inviting my friends, like most children do.
It was always something quickly done: a cake, candles, a present...
I genuinely feel sorry for the little boy I was, and all I want is to hold him in my arms and tell him that I love him.
Finally, an easy question—one that should only require remembering good moments and writing them down...
Easy? Not really. And once again, almost every day, these questions I’m reflecting on end up making me cry.
I’ll start anyway with a few memories that came back to me:
When I was around 12 or 13 years old, there was the final of my region’s football championship.
It was the first time my small team had ever reached a final.
We dyed our hair in the colors of our club.
It was a very close match that ended in a penalty shootout, and I scored my penalty.
We won and celebrated the way we should have, with our friends. It was amazing.
I also remember the holidays I spent at my aunt’s house—my second mother, the most wonderful woman.
When I was younger, around 4 years old I think, I have an image of my mother walking into my classroom with a basket full of sweets and other things to celebrate my birthday.
To remember these things, I had to dig very deep, and at first I couldn’t really see many happy moments.
I never experienced anything truly terrible. My parents were not bad people, we never lacked money, and yet I am realizing how much I was missing the most important thing.
When I first tried to answer this question, I thought about important moments like Christmas and birthdays, for example...
Unfortunately, when it comes to Christmas, I don’t have many happy memories. At best, they were moments that were quickly over; at worst, I remember seeing my parents arguing and breaking plates.
I never lacked gifts—I was spoiled in that regard—but I always lived in the atmosphere created by a mother who struggled with anxiety and depression.
Did I ever truly experience safety, a reassuring presence, or a peaceful and comforting environment?
I don’t really think so.
My birthdays were quite similar.
For example, I have no memory of ever organizing a birthday party at home and inviting my friends, like most children do.
It was always something quickly done: a cake, candles, a present...
I genuinely feel sorry for the little boy I was, and all I want is to hold him in my arms and tell him that I love him.