Memories

I use Timehop every day. I love seeing old pictures of my pets, snapshots of Joe, and all the places we’ve traveled. Most of the time, those memories feel soft and warm. They remind me of things I forgot I lived through. They make me smile. They make me grateful.

But today wasn’t one of those days.

Timehop showed me a post from five years ago. It was a message thanking everyone for their support when my dad had his brain surgery. I remember writing it. I remember feeling scared but hopeful. I remember thinking we were stepping into recovery, not loss.

What I didn’t know then was that this was the moment everything shifted. I didn’t know that the full version of my dad, the one I grew up with and trusted and recognized without thinking, wouldn’t fully come back. I didn’t know that this was the beginning of losing pieces of him slowly and quietly in ways I couldn’t see until they were already gone.

Seeing that post again hurt. It felt sharp. It made my chest ache. It made me wish I could go back and tell myself to pay attention, to hold onto every moment afterward, to memorize the things I didn’t realize were slipping away.

If I had known what was coming, maybe I would have cherished everything more. Maybe I wouldn’t feel this heavy mix of grief and regret. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt the way it does now.

But memories don’t work on our terms. You don’t get the good ones without the bad ones. You don’t get the joy without the grief braided into it. You don’t get the snapshots of pets and vacations without the reminders of the moments that broke you open.

Today hurt.

Today reminded me of what I lost. Today reminded me that remembering is complicated, and loving someone means carrying all of it, even the parts that still sting.

And even when it hurts, remembering is still a way of holding on.