September will forever carry a date that changed me. It has now been ten years since my only sister transitioned, and still, my mind can replay that day with perfect clarity. Grief has its own calendar, its own clock, and its own way of reminding the heart of what it has survived.

I can still feel the hug you gave me before you left this world. I didn’t know then how deeply I would hold onto that moment, but it continues to keep me even now. Most days, I’m genuinely fine—functioning, smiling, living, choosing joy. But grief is a visitor that doesn’t knock. And today, without warning, I found myself back in that cell again—the same one I’ve worked so hard to escape.

So I let myself go there. I cried. I remembered. I released what was heavy. And then, just as intentionally, I walked back out. Because I have learned that I can visit the sorrow without becoming its prisoner.

I honor you by leaving the cell.

Every year, when the storm of your transition day arrives, I brace myself. I acknowledge it. I don’t pretend it isn’t there. But I also choose to remember the other part of the story—the part grief often tries to hide.

Your smile.
Your laughter.
Your voice.
Our memories.

Those waves have carried me—from the silver edge of sorrow back to the direction of peace. Even in moments when I wanted to drift into darkness, your joy pulled me toward light. You continue to guide me, love me, and steady me in ways I can’t fully explain, but I feel deeply.

September hurts.
But September also reminds me that love never dies.

And so, I honor you—not by drowning in what I lost, but by living through what you left in me.

My sister.
My memory.
My forever.

Some storms break us.
But some storms teach us how to breathe again.