Sometimes it feels safer to keep away from old fragrances and old music, because their ability to resurrect the past can be overwhelming, even frightening. Scent and sound work on the deepest parts of the mind, reaching emotion before thought, so the recall arrives too quickly to prepare for. What returns is not just a memory but a former version of myself, a figure I can sense vividly yet can no longer inhabit. These triggers also revive entire social worlds that have vanished — cultural textures, atmospheres, expectations that no longer exist — so the recognition comes wrapped in the realisation of how much has been lost. The past reappears too alive, too intact, while I stand changed, weathered by years that the fragrance or song has never had to endure. Faced with that imbalance, avoidance becomes a form of protection: a way to honour what those things once meant without being pulled back into emotional terrain that feels too raw or destabilising. Keeping them at a distance is not denial; it is self-preservation in the presence of memories that still carry more power than I can comfortably hold.