What If Memories Had Version Control?

Software engineers hate losing progress. We version everything: code, designs, documentation. We trust git more than our own memory.

But what if we could bring version control to our memories?

Not emotionally. Not sentimentally. Just thoughtfully.

What if your brain was a Git repository?

Each moment: a commit. Each trauma: a merge conflict. Each win: a tagged release.

v1.0: The Dumb Introvert Commit

This was the earliest version of me: quiet, observant, confused. I didn't speak much, not because I had nothing to say, but because I wasn't sure if anyone cared to hear it. Still figuring out who I was, often overwriting my thoughts with others' expectations.

This commit was raw, unrefined, unreviewed.

v1.3: The First Bug I'll Never Patch

Like the one that came after a major fall-out at 16. People I trusted proved me wrong, over something small, but it felt massive. It changed the way I saw dependency, privacy, and family.

It wasn't a bug. It was a breaking change.

But you know what?

It also introduced someone I now trust unconditionally: my sister. She became the co-author on every hard patch since.

That commit was painful. But it pushed me into building. And later, leading. And eventually, forgiving; not others, but myself.

v2.0: The Builder Commit

Pain can be a powerful catalyst.

That dark moment pushed me into creating something of my own. I built my first social networking platform, not out of ambition, but survival. I needed something to control, something I could `git init` on my own terms.

This version of me started building things: not just code, but identity.

v3.1 to v5.2: The Experimental Branch

This phase was messy.

Confidence felt like poorly written documentation, often faked. I was trying to be an extrovert in a world that didn't come with a readme.

Some commits failed. Some were pushed just to see what would happen in life (production, right?). I grew. I fell. I rebuilt.

There were days I felt like I was finally running main, and others where I rolled back to being that quiet introvert again.

v6.0: The Cool Build Commit

Eventually, I made something cool. Not just in code, but in presence. I started organizing hackathons and tech events. It felt surreal, moments where I didn't just exist in the tech world; I felt like I truly belonged.

Suddenly, my own history (commit history?) felt like something to be proud of.

v7.0: Love, the Unsaved Draft

Love entered the picture.

For a while, it felt like a permanent feature branch in my life. But some connections don't merge. Sometimes, they aren't even considered (pull request ignored, perhaps?).

It hurt. It still does. I sometimes wish I had an undo button to unmeet, unfeel, unremember.

But love leaves traces, even if the commit is deleted.

And sometimes, that's okay.

v8.0: Working Towards Stability (Sort Of)

This version isn't shipped yet, still very much a work in progress. Perfection isn't the goal, but stability is something I'm striving for.

I'm learning that not all bugs can be fixed, nor should all branches be merged. Some parts need to remain distinct, like memories: painful, beautiful, complete in their own context.

The process involves trying not to squash the past, but rather to read the logs and integrate the lessons.

What if Git Worked on People?

What if you could…

`git log` to rewatch your growth?
`git blame` to trace your trust issues?
`git revert` that toxic friendship?
`git checkout` your most confident self before that important meeting?

Final Thoughts: `git log --oneline`

There's no perfect version of yourself, just commits that feel more 'you' than the last.

Some memories are better off untracked; some must be documented.

Trust, once broken, isn't always restored. But sometimes, someone steps in, like a supportive fork, and helps you move forward.

Sometimes, life doesn't need permission. It just needs you to commit: to something, to someone, to yourself.

So the next time you wish for an undo button, remember:

Maybe life isn't about rolling back. Maybe it's about committing forward: carefully, meaningfully, one version at a time.

💬 "If memories had version control, I'd still keep the bugs, because they made the patch notes meaningful."