For as long as I can remember, I’ve valued experiences and memories more than material possessions. That’s why most of my furniture is from Ikea or inherited from family, and much of my wardrobe comes from Target. It’s why I travel whenever I can, take countless photos, blog about what I see, and love to plan new adventures. I realize now that collecting memories is my deepest hobby, outlasting any short-lived infatuations (yes, even running).
It’s not that I don’t appreciate beautiful furniture or the chance to learn something new. Rather, I tend to think in “ticket currency.” When I see dollar signs, I don’t picture a new living room—I imagine how many days my family of four could spend somewhere new. I instantly calculate how I can add to my memory collection.
We just returned from a much-needed long weekend split between Myrtle Beach and home. We relaxed on the sand, tackled household chores, and celebrated the Fourth of July with friends. It felt like the perfect balance of old and new.
As we drove toward the shore, Jerry pointed out a string of old, abandoned buildings along the country roads. I snapped a few photos, and those images have stayed with me ever since.
We’d never been to Myrtle Beach before and were surprised there wasn’t a straightforward route from our home. Much of the trip took us down two-lane country roads through towns that felt mostly dormant. It was strangely captivating.
The more I think about those buildings, the more they remind me of myself. Each structure is a patchwork: old brick, wood, glass, plaster, metal, patches of newer brick, paint, and vines growing over the facade.
I’ll be 39 in just over two weeks. Looking back across my life and at my changing body, I see a lot of similarities to those buildings. Memories and experiences from each chapter are like additions or repairs on an old structure.
My foundation feels solid, and I hope it holds steady as everything around me shifts. While I admire sleek, new design, I find a distinct beauty in these weathered, overlooked buildings. They might look abandoned, but they endure.
Years ago I was interviewed about Botox. I recently reread that piece and, despite deeper lines now than five years ago (thanks to life and motherhood), I still feel the same way. Here’s a line I said back then:
I just feel that aging is beautiful and each line is a memory, a badge of honor. I wouldn’t feel right erasing that.
Since then I’ve removed the qualifier—aging is beautiful, plain and simple.
Sometimes I feel like the mural pictured below: made up, wearing my favorite lipstick and feeling bright. Other times I’m raw and unfinished, edges rough and exposed. Both states are part of the same person.
What I love about that mural is how it reads from a distance as one of the most beautiful things in town. Up close, though, you can see the cracks, the texture, and signs of life—vines threading through the brick, tender green against aged stone. That contrast tells me there’s still growth here, despite the wear.
This building has clearly seen changes and been repainted many times. How often do we do the same? We pick up a new role, adopt a new habit, or try on a new hat. Yet beneath each layer, the old one remains. Cracks get repaired but traces stay. That accumulated life is what makes us whole.
Why I am a collector of memories
I collect memories because they are more than a nice day at the beach or a photo by a castle. Memories let us relive life again and again in our minds. We naturally filter out some discomfort, but even challenging moments hold value.
Some cracks in my foundation are deep and painful—some memories feel as vivid and physical as if they happened yesterday. Left alone, those moments could be overwhelming. Yet when I fit them into the larger picture of my life, the gaps begin to heal. Vines of new growth wrap around those old wounds and bring life back into the frame. Real laughter, real tears, real days lived fully.
Collecting memories reminds me of my foundation. I’m not perfect; I have good days and bad days. I’m aging and learning as I go. I make mistakes. I get better. And through it all, I stand.
