Branches, Vines, and the Quilt of Memory

Branches and Vines Quilt by Ernestine Eberhardt Zaumseil

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I'm sat at home, wrapped up in a woolly jumper, steam rising from my mug, the fire flickering low in the hearth. Outside, the world is quiet, mist curling through the trees.

But inside, my mind keeps circling back — to old hurts, old stories, wounds that feel as raw as if they happened yesterday.

Why do those shadows cling so stubbornly?

Why is it so hard to let go?

I think it’s because those memories aren’t just memories. They’re part of the soundtrack that’s shaped us — the whispered narratives we tell ourselves about who we are, what we deserve, and how the world has treated us.

They become tangled up with our sense of identity, like vines growing around the roots of a tree, impossible to pull free without risking damage.

Psychologists call this rumination — the habit of replaying painful events over and over in our minds. It’s not just stubbornness or self-pity. Our brains get stuck in these loops because we’re trying to understand, to make sense of pain that often feels senseless.

It’s an unconscious effort to rewrite the past.

To regain control where once we felt powerless.

Freud spoke of repetition compulsion: the idea that we’re drawn to relive distressing experiences, as if, by doing so, we might somehow master them. But the paradox is, this endless replay often keeps the wounds fresh rather than healing them.

And then there’s the attachment piece.

Early relationships — especially those where safety was shaky or love was withheld — shape how we carry pain. When we feel abandoned or betrayed, it can embed a deep fear of loss that echoes through every relationship.

Holding onto anger or hurt, as painful as it is, sometimes feels like holding onto a lifeline — a way to protect ourselves from being hurt again.

There’s also the tricky part of identity.

Sometimes, the story of having been wronged becomes so central to how we see ourselves that it feels impossible to imagine life without it. “I am the person who was treated unfairly” becomes a narrative shield, but also a cage.

These loops — of rumination, of clinging to old stories — are both trap and attempt at survival.

But the fire reminds me of something else.

Warmth and light don’t come from holding onto cold ashes.

They come from letting the past burn.

Not to destroy memory,

but to clear space for something new.

Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting or excusing harm. It means choosing, again and again, to stop feeding the flames of old pain and instead nurture the quiet embers of healing.

It means recognising that you deserve peace, even if the past insists on echoing loudly.