When Grief Triggers Catch You Off Guard

“Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.”
— Vicki Harrison

Grief triggers are unexpected.

The first time you catch a familiar scent can bring a flood of tears.
A favorite song playing on the radio can stop you in your tracks.
A random memory can rise up without warning and take the air out of your lungs.

Some people are able to sit in those moments. They ride the wave of emotion when a trigger comes.

But that wasn’t me.

I remember the first time his song came on the radio. I quickly turned it off. I shut down anything that threatened to bring tears to my eyes. I wasn’t able to just feel my emotions or lean into them. It hurt too much.

Every time a familiar song started to play… I turned it off.
Every time a familiar smell filled the air… I retreated.
Even random memories were not welcome in my mind.

I even remember the first time I came home from the hospital. I took down every photo of us and placed them behind the sofa or in the back of the closet. In my mind, it was the only way to survive. If I didn’t see it, if I didn’t remember it, it couldn’t hurt me.

Yeah… that didn’t work quite the way I thought it would.

For a long time, remembering felt more like reopening a wound than honoring a life. Music, memories, even small reminders felt unbearable — so I avoided them whenever I could.

When Something Began to Shift

Until one day, something shifted.

I found myself remembering a trip we took to San Francisco. We were out touring the city and decided we had to ride one of the famous trolleys. You can’t go to San Francisco and not ride a trolley.

It was so crowded. And he was a big man. Seeing him squeezed in, surrounded by people, trying to stay balanced while the trolley moved — it was so funny. I don’t even know why it struck me so much in that moment, but when we got off, we both burst out laughing. The kind of laughing where you’re holding your stomach and can’t catch your breath while people walked past staring.

It was such a simple moment.
Such an ordinary moment.
But remembering it didn’t break me.

It warmed me.

For the first time, a memory didn’t just remind me of what I lost. It reminded me of what we had.

And I realized something important:

People can only know him through the memories I share.

Through my stories.
Through my voice.
Through my eyes.

Even though he isn’t physically here, he still lives in the moments I carry and the stories I allow myself to tell. Sharing those memories made me feel close to him again — not just in pain, but in love.

If You’re Not There Yet

If you can’t lean into triggers right now… that’s okay.
If the tears feel too big, the ache too sharp, the memories too heavy… don’t be hard on yourself.

In time — and only in your own time — those same memories that once knocked the wind out of you may begin to feel different. The tightness in your stomach. The sting of tears. They don’t disappear, but they can soften. They can begin to carry warmth alongside the ache.

If you feel able, I would love for you to share a memory of the person you lost. It is through your voice and your eyes that we get to see them as you did.

Even a small moment. Even a simple story. Those memories matter, and so does the love they carry.

And that is a beautiful way love continues.

However your grief shows up today, I am here beside you.
— Deneen

#HereBesideYou