A personal reflection on trauma, memory and identity, and how Arsenal, football and belonging helped me reconnect with a part of myself I thought I had lost.
I didn’t expect football to return pieces of myself to me.
Yet somewhere between a stadium, an old song, and memories I had buried for decades, something quietly shifted.
What Trauma Hides
Trauma is difficult to explain because it changes you in ways that are often invisible. Childhood wounds, shame, coercive control, emotional manipulation, and repeated experiences of fear can alter the way we move through the world. For some of us, passions fade, confidence shrinks, and parts of ourselves seem to disappear underground.
Why We Forget
Sometimes, we forget because we must.
When difficult experiences begin early, particularly in childhood, the mind finds ways to protect us. One of those ways can be dissociation: disconnecting from painful emotions, memories, or parts of ourselves in order to cope and survive. Over time, especially when trauma continues, we can drift far from the person we once were without fully realising it.
Looking back, football feels like one of those lost threads for me.
The Girl Who Loved Football for the Wrong Reasons
When I was about 14 or 15, I got into football for entirely superficial reasons: boys.
At the time, David Beckham was everywhere, and football felt woven into teenage life. A friend suggested we start watching matches so we could understand what the boys were talking about and join in their conversations. In theory, it was strategy. Extra points with the boys.
Falling for the Game, for Real
But unlike my friend, I actually watched the matches.
On Monday mornings she would ask if I had watched the weekend games, expecting the usual vague answer. Instead, I would excitedly talk through what happened in detail. Somewhere along the way, I genuinely started enjoying football. I remember watching matches with my brother on Saturday afternoons and feeling quietly delighted by this new interest.
My Father’s Disgust
Then something happened that, at the time, seemed small but stayed with me.
One Saturday night, my family were driving around trying to find an open restaurant while football played on a television nearby. I was captivated by the match, thrilled watching Ronaldo play, talking enthusiastically about the game.
My father reacted with disgust.
In front of everyone, he mocked and shamed me for loving football. What I remember most was not simply embarrassment, but the feeling that something joyful in me had suddenly become wrong. Small. Shameful.
The Quiet Disappearance
And after that, football quietly disappeared.
At school, I still discussed matches with the boys and stubbornly defended Manchester United when everyone around me wanted me to support Arsenal. But over time, the interest faded from my conscious life.
Or perhaps, more accurately, it went underground.
A Flicker in My Twenties
Years later, in my twenties, after moving to the UK, a friend unexpectedly reminded me how much I had once loved football. Strangely, despite not watching for years, I still instinctively said, “I support Manchester United.”
Then life moved on.
More Trauma, More Forgetting
More trauma. More survival. More forgetting.
Last year, after moving to Islington following many years in East London, someone encouraged me to support Arsenal.
“The stadium’s here,” they said. “You’ll feel part of the community. One day we’ll win and everyone will come together.”
At the time, I barely thought about it.
Something Shifted
But recently, something shifted.
A stadium photograph shared by Jeremy Corbyn unexpectedly stirred something familiar, and suddenly I found myself caught in a strange wave of recognition.
Football memories resurfaced. Conversations I had forgotten returned. Even fragments of the Arsenal song the boys taught me decades ago drifted back into memory:
North London forever…
What Trauma Buries
And with it came something bigger than football.
I began thinking about how many parts of ourselves trauma quietly buries. The interests we abandon. The confidence we lose. The spontaneous joy we stop trusting. The small delights we unconsciously learn are unsafe.
Healing Is Remembering
Perhaps healing is not always becoming someone new.
Perhaps, sometimes, it is remembering.
Remembering the girl who got excited over football matches. The teenager arguing passionately with boys over Manchester United and Arsenal. The person who felt joy before shame convinced her to hide parts of herself.
Reclaiming Her
So yes, I’ve decided I’m an Arsenal supporter now.
Because, somehow, it feels like reclaiming something.
I am learning that authenticity matters, even in small and ordinary things. I am spiritual, and I believe there is something sacred about following what feels true to us, however unexpected. The more natural and honest we become, the closer we move towards ourselves, one another, and perhaps even God.
North London Forever
So here’s to Arsenal.
Here’s to remembering ourselves.
Here’s to healing, belonging, peace, love, and joy.
North London forever—whatever the weather,
Karmic Rebelle
Disrupt Karma. Restore Dharma.
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