Reclaiming My First Memory: Turning Childhood Pain Into Purpose
The First Memory That Shaped My Life
My very first memory—one I’ve had confirmed by my parents—was when I was about three years old. I woke up in the middle of the night in the house I grew up in, in Crestwood. My bedroom was on one end of the hallway, and my parents’ was on the other.
That night, I remember the sound of them arguing. Not just talking—yelling. My mom’s voice was the loudest, sharp and emotional, while my dad yelled back. But the sound that etched itself the deepest into my memory wasn’t their voices. It was the sound of my mom’s dresser.
Her dresser had these metal handles that clanged whenever she opened or closed the drawers—a distinct, hollow rattle that still rings in my mind. That night, it became the soundtrack of my first memory.
I got out of bed and stood at my cracked door. Their bedroom door was open just a sliver—just enough for me to see the foot of the bed and a little bit of the floor. My mom kept moving back and forth from the dresser to the bed, tossing clothes into a bag or onto the mattress. She was wearing something white—a nightgown or a t-shirt—and her face was red and wet with tears.
I didn’t know what was happening, but I felt everything: confusion, fear, sadness, emptiness, insecurity, instability, and wonder. It was crushing. It was overwhelming. I didn’t even understand why.
Growing Up in the Shadow of That Memory
My parents didn’t divorce until I was 17, but that night became the template for the rest of my childhood. The yelling was a constant hum in our house—sometimes behind closed doors, sometimes in the open.
It wasn’t physical abuse, but it was emotionally heavy. Most nights, I’d just lie in bed listening to them fight in the front room. And somehow, I became the scapegoat—especially for my dad. He’d say things like:
“If I didn’t have kids, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“If you hadn’t done this, your mom wouldn’t act like that.”
I was just a kid, but I believed him. I believed that maybe I was the problem. That if I were different—better—maybe things would be okay.
That first memory became more than just an event. It became an identity. It shaped how I saw myself, how I related to people, and what I thought I deserved in life.
Breaking Free From My Past
For years, that memory silently controlled me. It was the unspoken reason I thought I couldn’t succeed, couldn’t be loved, couldn’t feel safe.
But in 2020, I did EMDR therapy—specifically focusing on that memory—and it changed everything. It didn’t erase what happened, but it loosened the grip it had on me. I still remember it clearly, but the emotional weight is lighter. It no longer defines me.
Reclaiming the Dresser
And here’s the poetic part: I actually own that dresser now. The very same one my mom was pulling open and slamming shut that night.
It sits quietly in my home today, and I use it daily. Maybe that’s my way of reclaiming it. Of transforming the sound of chaos into something ordinary—even sacred. Maybe it’s my way of rewriting the story—creating new moments, new associations, and new memories from the same object that once symbolized fear.
You Are Not Your First Memory
Here’s what I’ve learned:
We are not our first memories.
We are not our traumas.
We are not the roles we were given in childhood.
But for so many of us, those early experiences become invisible scripts we keep following. They shape our sense of worth, our relationships, our success—or lack of it—without us even knowing.
Healing starts when we name them. When we see them. When we reclaim them.
Moving Forward
If you’re carrying the weight of a memory like this, I want you to know something: it doesn’t have to define you.
You can detach from it.
You can rewrite the story.
You can reclaim your life—just like I reclaimed that dresser.
And that journey, as painful and uncomfortable as it can be, can lead to something beautiful: freedom.
Final Thought
My first memory was fear. But now, it’s also a reminder: we can transform what once broke us into something that builds us.
If you’ve been living under the weight of an old memory or identity, maybe it’s time to start reclaiming it—one drawer, one moment, one step at a time.