For a long time, I didn’t notice how much anniversary dates affected me. I thought grief was just here, every day, shaping my life in ways I could already see and feel. Why would one date on a calendar make a difference? So I never gave myself grace around those times. I would just do life and work as usual, not even mentioning what day it was.
I was wrong.
It took me years to realise and accept that anniversaries carried a hidden weight. What I eventually noticed was a clear pattern: in the week leading up to a significant date, I would feel low for no obvious reason. Suddenly, things I could normally handle with ease became dreadful. I felt a deep sadness about life, like everything was meaningless or scary. Ordinary obstacles seemed insurmountable. The world lost its colour.
For the longest time, I never linked these feelings to anniversaries. I thought it was just me being weak, or my mind slipping into negativity. But the truth is, our nervous system remembers—even when our conscious mind does not. Anniversaries bring time into sharp focus. They remind us, often silently, of what was lost and how much life has changed since.
Once I saw the pattern, I began to respond differently. I made a deal with myself: I don’t trust my negative thoughts in the week before an anniversary. I don’t take important decisions then either. Most importantly, I give myself permission to be kinder, to acknowledge what my body and heart already know, even if my mind resists.
And I started sharing these days with the people who love me. I realised they wanted nothing more than to be there for me. By letting them in, I turned days that once felt isolating into opportunities for connection and remembrance.
Anniversaries are hard not because grief suddenly returns, but because they awaken the love and the ache that is always there. The date is a reminder, and sometimes a trigger—but it can also be an invitation to honour, to soften, and to remember we don’t have to carry the weight alone.