The Girl Who Could Burn Memories

The First Burn

I was thirteen when I first learned I could burn memories. Not metaphorically literally.

My grandmother had just passed away, and I was holding one of her old scarves when the scent lavender and rosewater hit me like a wave. I closed my eyes, thinking of her hands, her voice, her laughter. A memory. Warm and vivid.

And then… it vanished. I didn’t forget her completely. But that particular memory her teaching me how to make tea, her calling me “beti” with that gentle tone it was gone. As if it had never happened. The scarf in my hand had curled at the edge, singed without fire.

I screamed. No one believed me. How could they? It sounded insane. But I knew. Somehow, my emotions had set something in motion. If I held onto something meaningful and focused hard enough it would burn. And with the burn, the memory tied to it would dissolve.

The Weight of Remembering

I didn’t use it again. Not for years.

I carried every heartbreak, every loss, every regret inside me like a heavy suitcase I refused to unpack. Even when it hurt to remember. Especially then. But when I turned seventeen, everything unraveled. My best friend, Mina, betrayed me in the worst way. She told everyone my secret: that my father hadn’t left us—he had been in rehab. I had only told her. Sworn her to silence. And she told everyone.

I stopped eating. I stopped speaking. I failed my classes. And one night, sitting alone in my room with the bracelet Mina gave me on my birthday, I cracked I pressed the bracelet in my palm. My heart felt like it was about to break open. I focused. And it burned. Just like before no flames, no smoke. Just heat. And then… silence. The next morning, I didn’t remember what the fight was about. I saw Mina at school and felt nothing. No rage. No pain. Just… emptiness.

Addicted to Forgetting

It became a habit.

A dried flower from an old crush? Gone. The playlist that played during my parents’ worst fight? Deleted, then burned. Even my old diary cover to cover reduced to ashes after one too many panic attacks. People thought I was healing. Smiling more. Sleeping better. But inside, I wasn’t whole. I was hollowing out piece by piece.

I wasn’t healing. I was erasing.

The Memory I Couldn’t Burn

The real test came when my mother got sick.

The hospital visits. The chemo. The nights I held her hand while she slept. The moment she told me, “You’ll be okay without me, but I’ll never be okay without you.” When she died, I sat with her favorite shawl for hours. The grief was unbearable. I wanted so badly to burn it. To let it all go. The pain. The fear. The loss But for the first time, I stopped myself. Because some memories even the painful one aren’t meant to disappear. They’re part of who we are. They remind us we lived. That we loved. That we hurt and survived anyway.

Letting It Hurt

Now I keep a box under my bed filled with things I haven’t burned:

• A faded photograph of me and Mina at age 10, holding ice creams

• My mom’s shawl

• A worn-out playlist CD labeled “Don’t Listen When Sad”

• A note I wrote myself in college: “Pain is proof you’re alive.”

I still have the power. But I don’t use it anymore. Instead, I let myself remember. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Because forgetting is easy. But healing takes courage.