Dear Hope: How do I cope with grief anniversaries?

Dear Hope, How do I cope with grief anniversaries? I think it’s going to be better each year, but it never is. It’s always just different.

Grief anniversaries don’t announce themselves. 

They don’t send a reminder. 

Even if you have them marked on the calendar, they still crawl into your chest when you least expect it – somewhere between their favorite song on the radio and the smell of their old shampoo in a stranger's hair. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re unravelling in a random aisle in a grocery store. 

And here’s a secret: they feel different every time. Every. Single. Time. Sometimes they’re calm. Sometimes even sweet. Sometimes they rip you open. Other times, they don’t.

The calendar doesn't lie, but your body sometimes remembers before your brain does. That date – that one date – and it becomes an open wound all over again. Maybe it’s the day they died. Or their birthday. Or the day your life split into a “before” and an “after”. 

And yeah, maybe you thought you’d be “better” this year. Stronger. Number. Whatever the hell that means. 

But here's what no one tells you: Grief anniversaries aren’t tests. You don’t pass or fail. There is no gold star, A+ for “handling it well” (if that’s even an option). 

Some years, you’ll fall apart, crying softly into your coffee in the breakroom at work.

Some years, you’ll feel nothing and wonder what’s wrong with you.

Other years, it’ll feel like a brick to the chest, and you’ll cancel everything just to rot in your bed for the day.

Some years (maybe to your own surprise) you’ll laugh. You’ll feel light. You’ll tell stories and feel that warm, familiar love more than the pain.
All are okay. All are valid. All are part of grief. 

And it might feel different each year. That’s not a sign of “getting over it” or forgetting. It’s a sign that your relationship with death, the death of your person, is evolving. YOU are evolving. Grief – just like life – isn’t static; it grows with you. Sometimes sideways. Sometimes quickly, or slowly, or loud or so quietly you can barely tell it’s happening. But it is. 

So, do it differently. Approach each anniversary like a new wound with old roots. Even if the pain feels just as sharp, or heavier, or strangely dull – let it be what it is. 

The day doesn’t have to meet any expectations for your grief to be real. For their death to be impactful. You don’t need to spin the day or your feelings into something poetic. It doesn’t even have to make sense. You just need to sit with it, all around you, however you can. 

Memorialize them. Or don’t.

Tell stories to whoever will listen. Or stay silent. 

Write them a letter. Scream into your pillow. Go outside. Stay in bed. Make their favorite meal. Cry with someone else who loves them. Eat the cereal you used to eat together at 2am in the dark. Whatever your grief asks for, listen. 

Don’t judge yourself for it looking, feeling, sounding different. Just do whatever it is that gets you through the anniversary, and to the next one. 
And whatever the day brings – grief, peace, rage, gratitude – remember this: They’re with you then. They’re with you now. They’re with you all of the days in between.