I startled awake this morning, mid-dream, at 4 a.m., like I do most August 6ths.

Because 29 years ago my water broke at 4 a.m.

My son would have turned 29 today.

The body remembers. 

I never know what I’m going to write about on his birthday. I usually leave it to the day to see what I’m feeling like. It’s a hard post to write ahead of time.

But I have had a few thoughts this year that I think are important, and may be comforting to some people, and I’d like to talk about them today.

My son Christopher died from an infection after surgery to repair a severe heart defect.

He was 29 days old.

A few months later I was pregnant with his sister Katie, and she would complete our family. Our life has been a good one, including the heartbreak we had with losing our son. But over the years, I have learned that grief comes and goes and changes–but it isn’t a bad thing.

I used to think that I triggered my own grieving episodes.

I thought that the reason I got sad was because I let myself think of my son. So I got sad on his birthday, and on the anniversary of his death (September 4), because I was thinking of him more.

And I would get a little bit upset at myself for that, because sometimes I’d be out of commission for a day or two, especially when the girls were younger. And I’d want myself to get a handle on things. To move on as I knew I could.

Sure, I was sad, and it was okay to be sad, but I had responsibilities. I had things to do.

I would get upset at myself when I would start crying in an instant when I thought something or saw something; how could that happen? It didn’t even have time to register! Come on, Sheila. Get your act together. 

I now realize that grief isn’t something I do; grief is something that happens to me.

About 10 years in I started going to counseling because every spring and summer I’d be a funk and couldn’t get out of it. We found out about Christopher’s heart defect in April, when I was five months pregnant, and then he passed away in September. And so those five months, every year, were just tough for me. When the weather started to get warmer, I’d start to get sad.

The counseling, plus some time, helped.

But as I look back now, I realize that my body was just sensing the seasonal changes, and was remembering.

In the same way that it wakes me up at 4 a.m. on August 6, and often at 1:30 a.m. on September 4, when the phone rang to tell us that we had to rush to the hospital when he was crashing. It’s like my sleep on those nights just isn’t right. My body is flexed, waiting to remember. Because pain is often stored in the body. Memory is stored in the body.

And the body tells you things about what is happening, and we do need to pay attention.

I can give meaning to what my body is saying.

I can pay attention, and acknowledge the sadness–because it is sad.

But the truth is that, after 29 years, I don’t see my life, or even his death, as a tragedy, if that makes sense. I more see it as a parallel universe, where life took a turn, and I like where I ended up. I love my youngest daughter to bits, and I adore my granddaughter. I feel like this is what my life was supposed to be.

So when I get sad, I’m sad for the young woman who had to endure losing a baby she loved so much. I’m sad for little me.

Both of my daughters are now older than I was when I lost my son. Both of them now have children who are older than he was. I’m grateful for my life, but sad for little Sheila.

And over the years I’ve realized that it’s okay to say, “I’m sad for what happened to me and for little me, but I’m also okay.” Being sad doesn’t mean that I’m a mess or that I wish my life were different or that I’m angry. It can simply mean that I’m sad, because something really hard happened to me.

Some people go through such horrendous griefs that they most certainly are sad because they wish things were different. That’s their journey, and I know people whose journeys are much harder than mine.

But the point is this: It doesn’t matter who has a harder journey. Grief is just your body remembering that something bad happened to you, and you are feeling sad. And you get to let yourself feel that sadness, and honor that memory–but you can then interpret it how you have chosen to. You can give meaning to that grief.

For some of you, that loss is immense, and you have to figure out how to get through each day. You can acknowledge that you are strong and that your love is immense, and that life is very, very hard.

For others, it’s just having compassion on young you who went through something huge.

And it’s honoring that grief in whatever way seems to make sense to your body today. Whatever makes the pain a little less.

This was the first year I almost forgot.

Two days ago I was not feeling well. My stomach was seriously bothering me, and I couldn’t figure out why. I just headed to bed early. But I checked my calendar for what was on the next day, and saw that it was August 4, which meant August 6 was coming. And I wonder now if my body was just trying to remind me.

My point, I guess, is this: sometimes we go through things that hurt. They just do. And even if you move on and your daily life is pretty good, you still suffered something big. And that pain is still there. And it’s okay to honor that, and honor the younger version of you who endured that pain, and fought through it, and became who you are today. It’s okay to honor the fact that, because of that pain, you maybe weren’t able to do some things or achieve some things you wanted to. It’s okay to mourn that loss. That’s not you “not getting over it” or “holding on too tight.” That’s just honoring the fact that young you hurt, and was strong, and deserves to be seen.

And so today, I see little Sheila, as she held her baby. I see her as she kissed him good-bye. And I’m proud of how hard she fought to emerge from the funk, but I’m still sorry she had to feel so much pain.