When Memories Return: Trauma, Halloween, and the Weight of the Past

When Memories Return: Trauma, Halloween, and the Weight of the Past Trauma is a strange, unpredictable thing. It’s like the brain has its own silent guardian, shielding us from memories that would be too painful to bear. In its quiet way, it gauges what we can handle, often keeping difficult memories buried, locked away to protect us. But trauma has its own highs and lows. Sometimes, despite these hidden doors, memories surge back, intense and undeniable, breaking through whatever barriers the mind has built. This Halloween, those memories are creeping back in, raw and close. Halloween was one of Sana’s favorite holidays. Every year, she’d light up with excitement, planning her costume down to the smallest detail. She’d have these creative ideas—sometimes spooky, sometimes whimsical—and she’d always insist that we join in, dressing up even if it wasn’t our thing. Her joy was infectious. She’d fill the house with her energy, her laughter echoing as she got ready, piecing together makeup or painting on fake scars. This year, we’re going to hand out candy to the kids who come trick-or-treating, trying to keep that spirit of hers alive in a small way. But as the day approaches, it’s hard not to feel the ache of her absence, wondering how we’ll manage without her voice filling the room. And yesterday, the weight of memories grew even heavier. A friend of ours was hospitalized, and when Idris spoke to him, their conversation was filled with words we’d tried so hard to forget—tests, bloodwork, kidneys, diagnoses. As if on cue, Idris was transported back to that hospital room with Sana. In an instant, memories we’d both tried to block came flooding back with all the rawness of those painful days. He described it as a lightning bolt, an overwhelming feeling that left him reeling, as if the brain’s carefully shut doors had flung wide open without warning. That conversation unlocked so much of what we’d tried to suppress—the fear, the daily uncertainty, the endless hours spent waiting and hoping. For me, hearing about a friend’s health issues is like a mental switch. It takes me back to those long hospital days with Sana, and instinctively, I tune it out. I almost avoid anything about medical news or updates; it brings me back to painful places I’m not always ready to revisit. The mind builds defenses over time, and mine keeps out anything that could stir up those memories. But for Idris, it’s different. He tends to face things head-on, feeling them deeply, letting them flow through him even when it’s painful. We’re both navigating the grief differently—there’s no right way, just the way each of us has found to cope. In these moments, I realize how essential it is to acknowledge that grief is a winding path. There’s no one-size-fits-all approach. As we continue, we learn that honoring the memory of someone we loved isn’t about blocking pain but finding ways to carry it. Whether it’s distributing candy on Halloween or avoiding painful topics, each of us is doing what we can, day by day. And though it’s far from easy, we’re learning to live with these memories and keep moving forward, one small step at a time.