28/01/2026
I’ve been doing a lot of reading around nervous system regulation and early childhood development. It’s a topic that’s fascinated me ever since my sound and somatic training. Over the past few months, that curiosity has turned inward.
I’ve been reflecting on my childhood. My parents. School. Early pets. The small, ordinary things you assume you remember… until you realise how much of it is missing.
What stands out isn’t total amnesia, but gaps. I have snippets. Flashes. Isolated moments. But large stretches feel hazy. For example, I had a dog when I was around 9 or 10. I know I did. But I can’t really remember her then. I remember her clearly when I was about 15. I have one memory of her as a pup, then a long blank space. It’s oddly specific in what isn’t there.
At first, I questioned my memory. Why can I remember some things so clearly, and not others?
The more I learn about the nervous system, the more it makes sense. When a child grows up in an environment that feels tense or unpredictable, the brain doesn’t prioritise detailed memory storage. It prioritises safety. Getting through the day. Reading moods. Staying alert. Memory becomes functional rather than narrative.
A lot of early memory isn’t stored as clear images or stories. It’s stored in the limbic system, closely tied to emotion, smell, sound, and bodily state. That’s where the hippocampus comes in, linking experience to feeling rather than words or timelines.
So instead of trying to think my way back, I’ve been approaching memory through the body.
I’ve been using sound, gentle repetition, familiar tones, and rhythms that help my nervous system settle. I’ve been working with smell too, because scent goes straight to the limbic system without stopping to ask permission. It bypasses logic and goes straight to memory storage. Sometimes nothing obvious happens. Sometimes a feeling appears without a picture. Sometimes there’s a sudden sense of familiarity that I can’t quite place. That still counts.
This is where my autistic obsessiveness, which once felt like a flaw, has become an ally. The repetition. The focus. The deep interest. It helps me relax into the process rather than force it. I’m not trying to drag memories out. I’m creating the conditions where they feel safe enough to surface, if they want to.
I’m also learning that memory doesn’t like pressure. The harder you try to remember, the more it resists. But when the nervous system softens, when sound and scent do their quiet work, things sometimes arrive sideways. Through sensation. Through emotion. Through a sudden internal yes, even without a clear image attached.
It’s changed how I see memory altogether. Not as a perfect archive, but as a protective system. One that did what it needed to do at the time.
If you struggle to recall large parts of your childhood, it doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong. It may mean your system adapted early, efficiently, and quietly.
And sometimes, the absence of memory is not a failure. It’s a clue.
