On The Anniversaries With People Who Are No Longer in Our Lives

There are certain dates that, even if they don't have Google Calendar reminders, they for damn sure live permanently in the body.

The day you met. The day everything changed. The day you realized this relationship would never look the way you once imagined.

Today is one of those days for me. Today is the day Will and I met.

He has been gone for some time now, and yet, here he is. In my chest. In my memory. In the slightly peculiar heaviness that arrived this morning before I even named it. In that damn calendar reminder...

Anniversaries with people who are no longer in our lives are complicated things. These aren’t Hallmark‐card celebrations, and they don’t always come with a neat emotional arc. They show up whether the person left because they died, transitioned into a different version of themselves, or because we made the very brave, very hard decision to create distance. And somehow, we’re still expected to work, parent, teach, respond to emails, and not cry in the middle of BJ's near the cookies... for example.

Rude, honestly.

The Mixed Bag of Feelings We Don’t Talk About Enough

What I’ve learned about these anniversaries is that they rarely come with just one feeling. It’s never only grief. It’s not only nostalgia. It’s not only anger. Or relief. Or longing. It’s grief and gratitude. Sadness and warmth. Missing and knowing you survived.

With Will, I feel a deep ache for what was lost... and a genuine thankfulness that I ever got the chance to love and be loved by him at all. He loved me in the way I most needed: through acts of service. Quiet care. Thoughtful follow‑through. He was gentle with everyone he encountered, the kind of gentle that didn’t need to announce itself. And he carried a sincere desire to be better, in his relationships, in his character, in the world. That kind of love leaves a mark. And so yes, his death still fills me with conflicting emotions. Both things can be true. They usually are.

When the Anniversary Sneaks Up on You

Sometimes these dates arrive loudly, clearly circled in your mind weeks in advance, with a ton of notifications. And sometimes they sneak up on you disguised as irritability, fatigue, or a sudden urge to reorganize your entire kitchen drawer at 10 pm, and your jewelry at 11:07 pm.

You might not even consciously realize what day it is until your body does something strange. You’re more tender. Shorter. Quieter. Or unusually reflective. This is not you being “dramatic.” This is memory living in the nervous system. And no amount of therapy (spoken as a therapist) completely erases that. Nor should it.

A Note on People Who Are Still Alive... but Not Here

I also want to say this clearly: some of the hardest anniversaries aren’t about death. They’re about people who are very much alive but no longer accessible to you because distance was the safest, healthiest, or most honest choice. That loss can feel especially lonely because it doesn’t come with a publicly recognized script for grieving.

You still remember the good. You still remember the connection. You... also remember why you stepped back. And if that’s you, your grief is not “less than.” It is simply different.

How I’ve Learned to Handle These Moments (Most of the Time )

Now, I won’t pretend I have this all figured out. Some years, I’m gracefully reflective. Other years, I stare into space and forget to eat. But here are a few practices that have helped me move through anniversaries with more kindness toward myself:

1. Name the day, even if only privately.

There is something grounding about saying, “Today matters.” You don’t have to post about it. You don’t have to tell everyone. But acknowledging it internally keeps you from wondering all day why everything feels off.

2. Lower the bar. Then lower it again.

Anniversary days are not the time for major productivity goals or emotional heroics. This is a “bare minimum + maybe compassion” day. Anything accomplished beyond that is extra credit.

3. Let gratitude coexist with grief.

You don’t have to choose one feeling. You can grieve the ending and honor what the relationship gave you. Loving someone who is gone does not mean you are stuck in the past. It means you were changed.

4. Do one small grounding ritual.

Light a candle. Drink coffee slowly. Have a chocolate. Listen to a song that reminds you of them. Write a few sentences. Talk to them in your head. Rituals don’t have to be big to be meaningful.

5. Beware the “I should be over this by now” voice.

That voice is not helpful. It’s not insightful. It is usually rooted in shame, not wisdom. Love doesn’t operate on clean timelines, and neither does loss.

6. Add gentle humor where you can.

Sometimes I will literally say to myself, “Ah yes, griefy season has arrived. Again. Ole hussy!” Humor doesn’t really minimize the pain, but it makes it more survivable.

What Remains

See, the thing about meaningful relationships... even ones that ended painfully or abruptly... is that they change us. We don’t go back to who we were before them.

With Will, I carry forward a deeper appreciation for gentleness. For consistency. For being loved through action, not performance. I am different because I knew him, and most certainly because he loved me.

And while I wouldn’t have chosen the ending, I will always choose to be grateful for the beginning.

If today is one of those days for you, whether you’re marking a death, a goodbye, or a distance, know this: it makes sense that it hurts, and it also makes sense that it matters.

You’re not weak for remembering. You’re human. And sometimes, that memory is just love... finding a new place to live.