On Victory in Europe Day, I found myself thinking about my father, Vacys. Born in 1921 in Lithuania—then an independent republic—his early life unfolded against a backdrop of geopolitical instability that would soon engulf his homeland. In 1940, Lithuania, along with Latvia and Estonia, was annexed by the Soviet Union. By the end of World War II, my father had been swept up in the chaos of shifting frontlines and occupations. He arrived in the UK in 1947, a displaced person, the consequence of Nazi Germany and Soviet power struggles.
He never went back. Fearful of life under Russian control and distrusting of those who had stayed, he cut all contact with his family. It’s a silence that echoes even now, one I only started to truly notice after his death in 1990, when he was just 69. By then, it was too late to ask the questions I hadn’t yet formed. Too late to hear more about his version of events.
My curiosity about my own life story really only began in the early 1990s, when I was introduced to “biography work” as part of my training as a counsellor and facilitator. Our group spent three months exploring it deeply, and I ended up writing a 28,000-word essay on the subject. When I re-read that essay recently, I was struck by some of my early interpretations and the significance I had assigned to events in my life. So much has changed since then.
What struck me most was what wasn’t there: any real reflection on my Eastern European heritage. It barely featured. And yet, in the past few years, that part of my identity has become more prominent, a rich, as-yet-untapped seam of meaning and memory. I find myself wondering: What was my grandmother Kazimiera like? Have I inherited any of her features or traits? How have the losses, traumas, and longings of my ancestors shaped who I have become?
There are so many ways to explore the stories of our lives, and just as many ways to tell them. In my thirties, I focused on certain themes, certain meanings. Now, in my sixties, the questions I ask are deeper, more nuanced. My perspective has changed, and so too has the telling of my story. I’ve come to bless my life’s journey—the good and the not-so-good—and to see that understanding is not static. The lenses through which we view our past evolve, and with them, our understanding of what our stories mean.
I no longer believe the past is simply “water under the bridge” a fixed narrative, closed and unchanging. In biography work, the past is something we can revisit and, in a sense, reshape. Not by changing the facts of what happened, but by reinterpreting them—examining the perceptions and filters that colour our memories. It’s a process of reclaiming agency, of recognising choice and responsibility in how we understand our lives.
Biography work isn’t something you do once and move on from. It asks us to stay in relationship with our evolving sense of self. It invites us to reassess long-held beliefs, to let go of outdated grievances, to reframe the turning points that have shaped us. It allows us to unearth long-buried strengths, to see value in what we once overlooked, to dig out the gold hidden in the layers of lived experience.
And it’s not just about the past. By tracing the threads of our personal history, we begin to see how they weave into the present—how they inform who we are now and influence the choices we make for our future. When we honour our stories, we create space for healing, clarity, and new possibilities.
On that day of remembrance, I honoured not just my father’s life, but the broader story I am still uncovering—mine, his, ours. The stories of our lives are always unfolding. And if we’re willing to stay curious, there’s always more to discover.
Marion Ragaliauskas
Our Working with Life Stories one day Biography Workshop for Coaches, Facilitators, and those on a path of personal discovery is now open for booking on 17 October 2025 9.30am – 4.30pm with Marion Ragaliauskas. More info HERE
