Another Year Without You: The Unique Ache of the Anniversaries
Each anniversary of a loved one’s passing feels different. It carries with it its own personal ache and longing.
Some are more raw as the pain floods in from every corner: every memory and missed moment overwhelming your heart and shocking your senses with a cold, enveloping grief.
Some are more subtle and allow for reflection and sharing favorite memories and cherished moments, eating favorite foods surrounded by the things and people that bring your hurting heart comfort.
Others may fall somewhere in between or may fluctuate between the above extremes.
As we approach the fourth anniversary of my Dad’s death this Sunday, I’ve felt new aches and I’ve also felt new reprieves.
New aches as I watch my children grow and as I wish that my Dad could see it. How I wish he could marvel at their personalities with me. How I wish I could ask him his opinions or call him to tell him the latest funny story. How I wish I could hear his voice and his calming laugh. How I wish I could share with him all the ways they resemble him, in spirit and in wit.
I’ve also noticed new reprieves. I find myself visiting him in our memories with more frequency (something I couldn’t do often in the early days of grief). I find myself looking for his love and feeling it surrounding me and reassuring me. I find myself returning to our favorite songs and shows with a warmth that had retreated in early grief.
And yet, I know that the ebbs and flows will continue until I see him again in eternity. And all I can do is my best to honor the tension created by great love and great loss coexisting in my heart.
Time moves differently without him. It’s a surreal feeling to see that date approaching on the calendar and to know that the person I was before it is not the same person I became after.
I feel it in the ways my body remembers the pain and responds to this time of year as though attempting to prepare itself for the approaching anniversary.
It’s in the tension headache and the sore shoulders. The heaviness in my limbs and the pit in my stomach.
My body has its own inventory, reminding me of all the ways it was deeply changed by grief and still feels it so viscerally.
There are pieces of myself I still mourn right alongside him. Pieces of my personality that he brought out in me. Pieces of our relationship dynamic, of my role in my family, of my identity.
But there are also pieces of myself that have come together again in truly unexpected ways. Pieces of myself that are tender but full of love and gratitude. Pieces of myself that were so deeply impacted by his love and continue to be.
Every year, the ache feels a little different, with different parts of his absence feeling especially painful. And this year, I think his friendship is what I’m aching for and mourning the most.
He didn’t open up to everybody, but when you were let in, there was no greater honor: to get to witness the depth, the devotion, the heart.
He was serious but so often silly. He was soft-spoken, but if you sat down beside him, you could tune in to his frequency and hear his hilarious wit in real time.
He adored his family. And music. And nature. And the things that make life truly worthwhile.
He gave the best life advice and was so willing to share his wisdom and share his time with those he loved the most.
He wasn’t afraid to talk about faith and about fear with me, teaching me so much about what it means to believe and to hope even when, especially when, it’s the most scary.
He was a comforting and steadying presence who saw each of us for who we truly were and who he knew we could be.
We understood one another on a soul level, and I will forever be grateful for the connection we shared.
Grief always surprises me with its ability to change and evolve and catch me off guard.
But on days like today, I invite it to take a seat.
On days like today, I try and honor my hurting heart and respond to what it needs.
And on days like today, I yearn to say “I love you, Dad. I miss you. You’re still the best friend I’ve ever had. How lucky I am to be your daughter. I hope you’d be proud of me.”
Thank you all for reading and for your tenderness. I appreciate it more than I can express. 🙏🏼
The 4th anniversary of the death of my wife of 29 years was on Friday the 17th. Your words were exactly what I went through. The body truly does remember.
I share your sentiment about approaching anniversaries. June will be five years since my mom left me. How that day hangs around my neck. It’s not just the day she left me but the day I left. The person I was is gone forever. The days drift between remembering the things we did together, both good and bad, and feeling like those are imaginary, did those things really happen. It’s the worst part of existing.