17 Jul 2025 5 min read Pop Culture

Triggers and Treasures

ver hear a song or catch a whiff of a scent and, just like that, you’re twelve again, or thirty, or anywhere but the present moment?

That's the power of sensory memories.

Case in point: Last week, I was driving back from errands with one of the kids, and Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds came up on Spotify. Love that song.

It took me, as it always does, right back to my favorite vacation memory, probably ever.

Several years ago, I was in Puerto Rico with the Balkan Storm. We were a few days in, sitting at this little poolside cantina, when the sky went from bright to ominous in about thirty seconds (totally normal, I learned).

So we grabbed a deck of cards (the absolute ragers that we are), and kept on playing cards and relaxing as the rain came down.

And then the actual storm rolled in...I’m talking chairs tumbling past us into the pool, beach umbrellas taking flight, thunder booming, and rain just flying everywhere.

The bartender nonchalantly went around pulling down the little "protective" shades around us as Three Little Birds started playing on the sound system.

He turned it up, and the entire cantina sang along at the top of our lungs, laughing and singing like lunatics as the wind and rain just lashed at us, just fully in it.

It turned out to be my favorite part of the whole trip.

It’s one of those memories I go back to a lot, partly because it’s a fun memory but also because it feels like living proof that even when everything’s chaotic around you, you can still hold on and laugh through it all.

Sometimes that's all you can do.

And every time I hear that song, I’m right back there. That’s the thing about these sensory flashbacks: they transport you.

I can still feel the rain on my arms, the metal chair under me, smell the rum and sunscreen in the air. For a few precious moments, you time-travel.

When I make barbecue chicken, I’m a kid at my grandparents’ house on the Fourth of July, fingers sticky with sauce and chasing my cousins, barefoot with sparklers in each hand. I can see grandpa in his apron at the grill and grown-ups milling about the house.

The smell of turkey in the oven sends me to my younger days in PJ's on Thanksgiving morning, glued to the Macy’s parade, impatiently waiting to see the Rockettes, eat Mom's turkey, and smoosh butter on Grandma's Alabama biscuits.

Thanks to Mom, I have that recipe, and every time I bake them (not often, gotta watch those refined carbs), the whole house smells like her kitchen.

And every time I see a trashy romance novel on a shelf (you know, those Harlequin bodice rippers), I think of my great Grandma Searcy. A tiny, white-haired, church-lady who used to devour those things.

She had a whole collection that she brought with her when she moved in with my grandparents. When I was about 17, I asked her why she read them so much, and I’ll never forget what she so matter-of-factly said:

“Honey, just cause there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there ain’t a fire in the furnace”.

She always did have a way with words and a few other zingers that probably shouldn’t be printed. But if you want those… well, there’s always my Ko-fi… just sayin’.

Sometimes, those memories are a safe, warm place to escape to. They make us feel connected to who we were and who we still are.

Other times, there are triggers that hit you like a punch from Canelo. They make you remember things you’ve spent your life trying to forget.

Like a certain cologne that yanks me straight back to my tragic post-divorce era, where I mistook being desired with being loved.

Innocent drugstore products still try to drag me to childhood nightmares I don’t want to remember. One second, I’m grabbing toothpaste; the next, I’m stuck in a memory I'd blocked on purpose.

And these smells, songs, and random items remind me that I’m not just this current, polished (yeah, right) version of myself.
I’m all of them:
The barefoot kid with sparklers
The scared child who didn't know how to voice what was happening to her
The heartbroken divorcee who didn't value herself like she should've
The teenager taking notes from a spicy grandma

They're all still here, reminding me what parts I've kept, what I've let go, and what still needs working out.

We talk a lot about being "present” and reinventing. But you can't really move forward if you pretend the past didn't happen.

Both treasures and triggers matter.
They remind us to own every part of our story and show us who we are, even when we wish they wouldn't.

That's what makes us authentic.

Sometimes, what stays with us isn't just a memory, but an icon —a symbol we've assigned meaning to.

I know some people have “comfort characters”—fictional heroes they use as emotional life rafts. I never had one of those.

I've admired plenty (both real and imagined), but I’ve never needed a single character to get through something. But I get it.

The closest I've come (and still do, honestly) is Marvel.
Which sounds...honestly kind of tragic now that I see that all typed out.

But hey, when you grow up watching superheroes while praying for a real-life one, you take what you can get.

Now it’s something my daughter and I share as our own weird little love language.

I have one small shelf in my office with Marvel merchandise I’ve been gifted (which I love).
She's got a closet full of character tees, a phone covered in wallpapers, and enough posters and collectibles to open her own booth at Comic-Con.

Her devotion is loud and proud. Mine's much subtler, except for the part where I constantly write about it on the internet like it's a coping mechanism.

I should probably look into that.

But anyway, it’s our thing, you know? The movies, the inside jokes, the debates about who would win in a fight - it’s something that connects us and anchors us in a world that's always changing.

A small comfort that takes us back just enough while still nudging us forward. Maybe that’s the whole point.

These moments are more than just memories; they are cherished experiences. They’re the fingerprints we’ve left on the world and the ones they left on us.

And you can't do anything with them except decide which ones deserve a place in your life now.

Because like it or not, they’re all coming with you.

If this hit home, I've got more. Real talk, no life-coach crap.
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