Memories (and Mild Panic)

I had big plans. A category structure that would make Marie Kondo weep. Colour-coded content. Keywords. Optimised tags. Then I opened my photo roll.

Roses, airshows, wide-eyed kids in freezing rivers, a man marching a technicolour frog puppet through a street parade, a suspicious number of wine bottles. Was this the plot of a whimsical indie film? No. Just July.

So yes—“Throwback” is now a category. Because if I don’t organise the beautiful mess of photos, I’ll forget half of it ever happened. These images? They’re a breadcrumb trail to the things that matter: the joy, the spontaneity, the sometimes overwhelming chaos that somehow feels like home.

Case in point: Bucharest. 40°C, air so thick with heat it felt like breathing was a cardio activity. I dragged C#2 with me. (He came willingly, but I like to keep the drama alive.) He spent his days playing ping pong with half my team, charming everyone within a 50-metre radius, and somehow commandeering the giant screen in a 200-person open space. And they loved him for it. A year later, he’s still talking about it like it was the pinnacle of his existence—and honestly, it kind of was. Which makes me think… maybe I am raising good kids.

That week is one of those memories I want to stumble across years from now and just feel it again. The heat, the laughter, the surreal magic of it all.

And before you ask, no, I won’t be limiting myself to one memory per week. That’s a level of discipline I just don’t have. This blog is a scrapbook for the soul. A reminder that it will be okay. Eventually. Probably. Let’s not overthink it.