Memory is not stored in the brain

Time, not space, contains memory

memory is not stored in the brain

The leading theories of memory describe it as being stored in the brain – similarly, some argue, to the way a computer stores memory. But this assumption relies on materialist assumptions and problematically bypasses the hard problem of consciousness. Memory is not stored in space, but in time, argues philosopher Victoria Trumbull.
 

From ancient times, philosophers have used the “storage” metaphor to describe the phenomenon of remembering. Memory is often pictured as a vast warehouse or library of experiences. In the past century, this “storage” metaphor has come to be taken literally: neuroscientists today maintain that a “memory” is simply a given pattern or collection of patterns of neural activity. This hypothesis forms a key part of the greater worldview known as “materialism” or “physicalism”: in brief, the idea that reality consists solely in physical stuff, and, correspondingly, that the human mind is reducible or equivalent to the body or the brain.

The central problem with this picture of memory is that, like many descriptions of the mind, the storage metaphor is only a metaphor. It feels intuitive to say that we “store” memories like books in a library or files on a hard drive. While this is a useful metaphor insofar as it helps us to describe and express what it feels like to remember, it cannot be anything more than this.

In order to prove that memories are stored in the brain, we would need to be able to observe this. But this is not a fact that belongs to the order of observation and experimentation. The most that neuroscientists can do is track cerebral activity and attempt to correlate the physical brain state to a description of concurrent mental experience. In carrying out experiments of this kind, however, the neuroscientist has already provisionally assumed that there is an exact identity or perfect equivalence between the mental state and the cerebral state. In other words, the hypothesis of localization that the neuroscientist has set out to prove has already been assumed as an initial axiom of his or her research. The correlation between brain activity and memory reports doesn’t prove that memories are stored in the brain any more than the correlation between footprints and walking proves that walking is stored in footprints, or the correlation between the piano and a sonata proves that the sonata is stored in the piano.

If we assume that the brain stores up discrete, localisable memories, it then becomes extremely difficult to explain how the brain can be said to generate, preserve, and reconstruct “representations” of this kind. How can the brain translate an image of experience, itself intangible and invisible, into a physical record or neural pattern? The neuroscientist is left with the philosophical challenge famously known as the “hard problem of consciousness”: given the complex physical machinations of the brain, whence arises the conscious experience of remembering?

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Kevin Rigley 22 March 2026

Wittgenstein famously warned that philosophy gets into trouble when language goes on holiday. In Victoria Trumbull’s account of memory, it is not only language that has wandered off — it is observation as well.

Trumbull’s central claim is that memory is not stored in the brain but exists “in time,” and that the storage metaphor is a category error born of materialist assumptions. She is right to caution against crude metaphors. Memory is not a file in a cabinet, nor a perfect replay waiting to be retrieved. But from this valid critique she draws a much stronger conclusion — one that exceeds what observation can support.

We know something simple and stubborn: damage to the brain changes memory recall. Lesions, neurodegeneration, and trauma alter what can be accessed, how it is experienced, and whether it can be reconstructed at all. This does not prove that memories are neatly “stored” like files. But it does prove something equally important: memory is biologically dependent. Whatever memory is, it is not free-floating in time, untouched by the state of the organism.

Trumbull attempts to dissolve the storage metaphor by treating it in its weakest form — as if neuroscientists believed memories to be fixed, intact objects sitting in discrete locations. But this is not the most serious version of the claim. A more accurate biological account does not require such simplicity. It holds that what persists are patterns, dispositions, and affective tags distributed across neural systems — not finished memories, but the conditions from which memories are reconstructed.

On this view, remembering is not retrieval but reconstruction under constraint. The past is not replayed; it is reassembled. Crucially, that reconstruction is shaped by the organism’s current state — its physiology, its safety, its capacity for reflection. This explains why memory is fluid, why it can be reframed, and why the same event can be experienced differently over time — without abandoning the fact that the process remains grounded in biology.

Trumbull is therefore right about one thing: memory is not best understood as a static object in space. But she is wrong to conclude that it therefore belongs purely to time, as if this removed the need for a physical substrate. This move replaces one misleading picture with another. It solves a problem created by a crude metaphor, but in doing so it risks discarding the very observations that any adequate account must explain.

The real task is not to choose between “storage” and “time,” but to recognise that memory involves both persistence and reconstruction. Something must endure — not as a complete experience, but as a structured potential — and something must occur in the present for that potential to become lived memory.

In this sense, the brain does not house memories as objects, but neither is it merely an incidental participant. It provides the biological conditions under which the past can be made present. Remove or alter those conditions, and the past becomes inaccessible, distorted, or altogether unrecoverable.

Philosophy serves us best when it sharpens our concepts without outrunning our observations. Trumbull reminds us not to mistake metaphor for mechanism. But we should be equally wary of mistaking a critique of language for an explanation of reality.

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Daniele Maccari 30 November 2025

A lot of empty words with no alternative given.

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Innes Kennedy 24 November 2025

So, anamnesis - we're back to Pythagoras and Plato?

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Vinod Wadhawan 17 November 2025

A useful explanation to not limit the memory to be wholly contained in the brain container. Thanks Victoria Trumbull

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Brian Balke 17 November 2025

When I gave up on particle physics, with its expensive colliders and space observatories, it was because I realized that the mind was the most important laboratory for understanding the nature of reality. What Dr. Trumbull writes here is accurate and symptomatic of the paradoxes that informed my conviction.

In exploring my subjectivity, I came to understand that space is a superfluid that forms from annealing of polygonal units. Given that space and time are a unitary manifold, time must also unfold from that annealing. Dualism is obtained through the introduction of "charge" that disturbs the structure of the lattice. That charge is not point-like, but thread-like. Charge that is bound to the fabric of space becomes matter. Charge that floats freely in the fabric of space is "spirit."

Each "moment" of time (in the fabric of space-time) records the configuration of charge. Memories are recalled by following the threads of charge back to that moment and allowing the experience to replay in our mind. That process is imperfect: in conceiving more perfect potentialities, we use conceptual and sensory associations to bring together diverse elements of memory together in our imagination.

I hope that this helps.

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