The places we knew don’t know us
Collective Letter
Dear friends,
Every month I try to ask a question that feels honest enough to open something in people, but not so heavy that it closes the door before anything can be said. I’m still ambivalent about the idea of keeping monthly themes, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to explore further the concept of Memory as fiction, which I introduced in November’s monthly letter. So, this time, the question was about returning to familiar places:
When you return to familiar places, do you find comfort in the echoes of who you once were—or do you feel haunted by the mismatch between then and now?
I loved your notes. Some made me laugh and will stay with me for a long time. What amazes me every time is how no one is trying to impress anyone. Everything feels like someone leaning on a kitchen table and telling the truth for a moment.
I wanted to share them the way they reached me: unforced, unpolished, full of that human mix of humor, confusion, nostalgia, and the strange comfort of realizing, “I felt this too, and I don’t know what to do with it either.” I’ve collected them here in that same spirit—not to answer the question, but to let the simple and uncomplicated sit next to each other for the time being.
“
Hey,
Your newsletter on memory made me curious, so I went to this café I used to love, to go “back in time”. Except the whole time I sat there, I kept thinking, did I really enjoy this or was I just pretending I did at the time?
Which led to the much bigger question of how much of my twenties was actually me, and how much was me trying to impress people.
Anyway, the coffee was bad and the chair was uncomfortable and I stayed there for an hour because apparently I enjoy suffering in familiar places.
No moral to this. Just reporting live from my own brain.
—S.A.
“
Hi Natasha,
I went back to Lisbon after three years away. Everything looked familiar but felt… thinner? Like someone turned off the contrast of the city. The place where I had breakfast every Sunday is gone. The woman who used to sell flowers outside the metro wasn’t there…I kept waiting for familiarity and excitement to hit me, but it didn’t.
It’s so odd to mourn a place that still exists.
—Claudia
“
My childhood bedroom is now a storage room. That’s the best metaphor for adulthood I’ve ever encountered.
—Miriam
“
Hi all,
I’m not sure how to put this, but I saw my reflection in a shop window today and didn’t recognize myself for a second. Not in a “who is that?” total blackout way. More like, Oh… that’s the person everyone else sees. It startled me. I don’t feel like that person. Inside I’m always… younger? Sadder? Messier?
Just wanted to share it here.
—Anonymous
“
Your question made me think about something slightly different: I don’t return to places as much as I return to moods.
There’s a certain heaviness that shows up every winter (maybe it’s a seasonal depression). I recognize it instantly, like “Oh, here we are again.” And each year I think I’ll be stronger or wiser or better prepared, but I’m not. I just learn to sit next to it without making a scene.
—H
“
People love saying “You haven’t changed at all!”.
I hear it every time I’m home(?), and every time I want to say, “Actually, I’ve changed in ways you can’t see. I carry a different kind of tiredness now. I’ve learned to want things I never thought I’d want”.
But instead I just laugh and mumble a thank you as if it’s a compliment. I don’t know if I feel comfort or discomfort in those moments. Is being perceived as “not changed” a compliment after all?
—
Thank you
To those who shared their thoughts: thank you for your vulnerability. To those who read them: thank you for holding these stories with care. If something here resonated with you, or if you feel moved to share your own note or letter, I’d love to include your voice in the next collective letter.
Until then, may these words remind you that whatever you are carrying, somewhere in this chaotic world, someone else is carrying a similar weight.
Month’s Gatherings
If you’re in the mood for good company and a journaling practice from the comfort of your armchair, join us for this month’s Clarity Pages:
Saturday, December 13
10.00 - 11.30 CET
Online
Thursday, December 18
10.00 - 11.30 CET
Online
How to join?
Monthly paid subscription. If you value the intention behind Eirene Cafe and find it positively impacting your well-being, consider supporting it with a paid subscription. This gives you access to the Clarity Pages, and you’ll receive the meeting link the day before the gathering.
Payment per gathering. If a one-time payment suits you better right now, you can choose to pay per gathering. Your subscription to Eirene Cafe will remain free, and you’ll receive the meeting link the day before the gathering.
Note: If paying isn’t possible right now and you’d benefit from the monthly gatherings, email me at eirene.cafe@gmail.com, and I’ll send the meeting link the day before the gathering —no questions asked.