The Body Remembers
The seasons of grief, the imprint of love, and the memories that live within us
Every June, something shifts inside of me.
It doesn’t arrive with an announcement. It doesn’t show up as a date circled on a calendar. It begins as a feeling. A heaviness. A tenderness. A quiet ache that settles into my chest before my mind catches up and remembers why.
June.
In the last 5 Years, I have had a hard time articulating this month. I have made a social media post here and there but I have never really talked about the month of June. How every year, for the last 5 years, I have had such a difficult time.
It was the month filled with doctor’s appointments, uncertainty, hope, fear, and the slow realization that life was about to become something none of us wanted it to be. It was the month that held some of the hardest chapters of Garvan’s health journey and ultimately the month he left this world.
Five years later, I have learned that grief does not disappear. It simply finds a place to live within us.
Life continues. We keep showing up, even if it’s just opening our eyes. Eventually we learn to laugh. We make plans. Through the pain, we discover new pieces of ourselves. We learn how to carry joy and sorrow in the same hands. From the outside, it can look like we’ve moved on.
But the body remembers.
The body remembers what the mind sometimes tucks away in order to keep functioning. It remembers the stress, the anticipation, the lost of control,the sadness, the heartbreak, and the helplessness of loving someone through suffering. It remembers the long nights, the difficult conversations, and the moment life split into a before and an after.
The imprint remains.
Not because we are broken.
Not because we haven’t done the work.
Not because we are stuck.
The imprint remains because experiences that profound leave marks on us. Love leaves marks on us.
Every June, I can feel those marks.
And instead of resisting them, I’ve learned to welcome them.
I let the tears come when they come.
I let the memories arrive without pushing them away.
I allow myself to miss him.
There was a time when I thought these feelings meant I was moving backward. Now I understand they are simply part of loving someone who is no longer here.
I’ve come to understand that these emotions are the closest I will ever be to Garvan again in this lifetime again.
Not because grief is all that’s left of him. It isn’t.
His humor is still here. His influence is still here. The lessons he taught us are still here. The love he gave us continues to ripple through the lives he touched. I see pieces of him in stories, in memories, in the way certain phrases still make me laugh.
But when those waves of grief arrive, they remind me of the depth of our connection. They remind me that what we shared was real and significant and worth missing.
So I welcome them.
Not because I enjoy the pain, but because I understand what sits beneath it.
Love.
The grief is simply love that no longer has a physical place to go.
Every June, my body remembers.
And instead of viewing that as something to overcome, I see it as something to honor.
I sit with it.
I make space for it.
I take long walks by the ocean.
I write.
I cry.
I remember.
I let the grief wash through me like a tide, knowing it will eventually recede, not because it’s gone, but because it has been felt.
Perhaps that is what grief asks of us.
Not to conquer it.
Not to fix it.
Not to get over it.
Simply to make room for it.
To allow it to sit beside us when it arrives.
To recognize it as an old companion carrying memories of someone we loved deeply.
The truth is that grief doesn’t move in a straight line. Life continues forward while grief circles back around. The years pass, yet certain moments can feel incredibly close. Not because we haven’t healed, but because love has no expiration date.
Maybe healing isn’t about forgetting.
Maybe healing is about learning how to carry both the gratitude and the ache.
How to let them sit beside one another. How to allow ourselves to feel whatever arrives without judgment. How to recognize that some people change us so completely that even after they’re gone, parts of them remain woven into who we are.
Garvan is one of those people.
And every June, when my body remembers, I am reminded that a love like that never truly leaves.
The body remembers because love remembers.
A Note to Nathan
Nathan,
When the grief comes, don’t run from it.
I know it hurts. I know it’s uncomfortable. I know there are easier ways to spend a day than sitting with sadness. But I’ve learned that some feelings deserve to be felt all the way through.
When I allow myself to feel the grief, I also feel Garvan.
I remember his laugh.
His voice.
His humor.
The way he loved us.
The way he made ordinary moments feel special.
The way he showed up for our little family.
The grief reminds me that he was here.
For a moment, the memories become vivid again and I can feel how deeply our lives were changed simply because we got to love him.
That is why I no longer fear the pain.
The pain is not punishment.
The pain is not something to fix.
The pain is evidence that something beautiful existed.
Garvan was one of the great gifts of our lives.
Not everyone gets to experience a person who leaves such a profound imprint on their heart. We did.
And because we loved him so deeply, there will always be moments when we miss him deeply too.
That is the exchange.
That is the cost of loving someone extraordinary.
So if one day grief catches you by surprise, don’t immediately push it away.
Sit with it.
Breathe through it.
Let the tears come if they need to come.
Let the memories come too.
Talk about him.
Tell a story.
Smile at something ridiculous he used to say.
Allow yourself to feel whatever is there.
Because hidden inside the grief is love.
And hidden inside the love is Garvan.
I truly believe that every time our hearts ache for him, they are also remembering him.
And there is something beautiful about that.
So don’t be afraid of the pain.
Sometimes it is the closest thing we have to a hug from someone we can no longer hold.
I Love You.
❤️🤍❤️