My Biggest Fear — MelinaMou

As I’ve gotten older, most of my fears have gotten smaller and smaller. But one fear that has gotten much, much larger is the fear of forgetting. And of being forgotten.

The worst thing about change is this fear. When I lose a place or a person, I fear that I won’t remember enough. They had been a part of my life. I had built important memories there. Every day, I was building more and more and then one day they’re just gone. And all that’s left are those memories. But memory is imperfect. It is infinitely malleable and especially susceptible to the erosions of time. The only thing that keeps memories alive are repetitions. It’s seeing, feeling, and being reminded, every day, noticing how people and places make me feel. What made me laugh or cry or wonder.

But when the catalyst for those reminders is gone, there is no reinforcement. No repetition. The memories I have can only be kept alive if I keep up the enormous effort of sustaining them on my own; a solitary exercise that can only end badly.

Because by trying to keep the memories as vibrant and detailed as the original experience, I also prevent myself from the necessary act of letting those people or places go. The necessary act of properly grieving for my past in order to make way for my future.

I also fear the other side of this. Not only do I fear losing my own memories, I also fear being forgotten. I fear that the people I’ve loved will forget exactly what made me so important to them and eventually I’ll be reduced to a speck in the grand timeline of their life. I fear that the places I’ve lived will swallow any impact I had as soon as I leave, erasing any record of my presence there.

I fear my own potential for insignificance.

I know that forgetting is more complex than that. I know that the people I’ve interacted with will remember my name, and the experiences we took part in together. But those things only stick because they are tangibles. Like remembering dates for a history test. Cold, and detached.

I want all of it. I want to be able to remember how I felt walking alone at night in Shanghai. I want to remember how I felt when a past love caught my eye. And I want those I’ve loved to remember how they felt when I made them laugh or reconsider their perspective. I want them to be reminded of me by mundane things. I want the things I’ve left in places to remain there as markers of my influence, however small it might have been.

Being recognized by the people and places I love is has become the most important thing to me. I want to know that I’ve done a good job, left a large impression, and made their life better while I was in it.

The cruel irony is that I can never have this. I can never know if I’ve been as significant as I'd hoped once I’ve left. I can only hope that my own memories are enough.