The Body Remembers: Grief, Trauma & My Dad’s Death

Twelve years ago today, my dad died.

As a family, we nursed him at home. Those final days were a blur of exhaustion, love, fear, tenderness, and watching the inevitable draw closer.

His last words to me, as I held his hand, were: “I love you. Don’t worry, I’ll be OK.”

I carry those words still. They’ve outlasted the rawness of those final hours, the chaos of loss, even the years that have passed since. But the body remembers.

Grief Doesn’t Follow Dates in a Diary

We like to imagine grief as something linear. The funeral happens, the anniversaries come and go, and after a certain number of years, you “move on.”

But grief doesn’t respect calendars. It lives in the body. It shows up as tears you can’t explain, a sudden heaviness, a restless night. You might think you’re reacting to stress, but then you check the date and realise: Oh. That’s why.

The body remembers the season. The light at that time of year. The sounds, the smells, the sensations of those final days. It remembers what your nervous system went through — and it whispers it back, whether you want it to or not.

Why the Body Remembers

Trauma isn’t just about “big events” like accidents or violence. It’s about the overwhelm that floods us when something is too much, too soon, too fast.

Watching my dad die at home was tender and sacred, but it was also trauma. The sights, the sounds, the helplessness of it. My body braced to survive it all. And now, every year, it remembers.

This is how the nervous system works:

• Sensory memory (the smell of antiseptic, the creak of floorboards at night).

• Emotional memory (the helplessness, the heartbreak).

• Body memory (tight chest, shallow breath, the frozen feeling when you can’t make it better).

You don’t have to think about it. Your body keeps the score.

Dysregulation & the Anniversary Effect

That’s why so many of us feel “off” around anniversaries of loss. Even when we’re not consciously marking the day, our bodies are.

For me, it looked like this past weekend: overwhelmed, hard to self-soothe, tearful without an obvious trigger. I thought I was just tired. But my body was replaying 2013, dragging me back to the edge of that hospital bed in his living room.

This is sometimes called the anniversary effect. Old grief reactivating the nervous system. But I think it’s more than that — it’s proof that our bodies are faithful witnesses. They don’t forget the weight we carried.What Helps (and What Doesn’t)

What doesn’t help: telling yourself you should be “over it.” Trying to muscle through. Shaming yourself for still being affected.

What does help:

• Name it. Remind yourself: My body is remembering. This makes sense.

• Soothe gently. Warmth, breath, grounding. Not to erase the grief, but to remind your system you’re safe now.

• Connect. Share the story. Say the name. Text someone who understands.

• Ritual. Light a candle. Walk in the woods. Do something small that honours the loss, instead of trying to ignore it.

The Love That Doesn’t Fade

Grief is only this strong because love was this deep. My dad’s last words weren’t instructions, they were reassurance. They were love condensed into a single sentence.

And there are smaller, quieter memories too. Like the way he used to sing Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds to me when I was growing up. That song has followed me through life. Even now, when I hear it, I’m right back in the living room with him, standing on his feet while we danced, his voice carrying something both playful and steady, reminding me I was loved.

That’s what the body remembers, too. Not just the trauma of loss, but the depth of the love that made the loss so unbearable.

Twelve years on, my nervous system still responds — because my love for him is still here. And always will be.

So if you find yourself blindsided by grief years after a loss, please hear this: you’re not weak. You’re not failing to “move on.” You’re human. Your body remembers what your mind might prefer to forget.

And maybe that remembering is its own kind of honouring.

Sarah x