Every year, August comes with a familiar rumble. It’s the month where the storm of grief rises again—uninvited, unrelenting, unforgettable. For a long time, I dreaded its arrival. It carried too many memories, too many birthdays, too many reminders of the ones I can no longer physically hold: my sister, my father, my cousin. And now, this August, I carry a truth my heart can barely hold—knowing my sister is preparing to transition next month.

But this year, something in me shifted.

Instead of bracing myself for sadness, I chose to acknowledge August. To face it. To greet the storm rather than run from it. I let the memories come, but I did not let them drown me.

This month, I honored the birthdays—not with tears of what I’ve lost, but with gratitude for what I had. I remembered the celebrations, the laughter, the candles, the songs, the ordinary moments that became sacred without me realizing it at the time. Rather than collapsing under the weight of their absence, I honored their presence. Even in transition, even in spirit, they are still mine and I am still theirs.

So I did what we used to do. I ate the familiar foods. I listened to the familiar music. I spoke their names out loud. I acknowledged them, not as ghosts of my past, but as companions in my journey—just on a different side of the veil.

There was a time when grief locked me in a cell of my own making. I remember those nights—the floor soaked in tears, the silence louder than thunder, the pain heavier than breath. I sat in the darkness of their departure, convinced I would live there forever.

But I don’t live in that cell anymore.

Do I still visit it? Yes. Grief has visitation rights. Memory has keys to doors I thought I’d sealed. But I am no longer a prisoner there. The storm may visit every August, but it does not own me.

Because now I know something I didn’t know before:

They would want me to live.

To laugh again. To love again. To celebrate again. To step outside when the sky clears and feel the sun on my face. To breathe without guilt. To exist without apology. To continue the story instead of stopping at the chapter of loss.

August reminds me of what I had.
August reminds me of what I survived.
August reminds me that grief is not the end of love—it is the evidence of it.

So I honor the storm.
I honor the memories.
I honor the birthdays and the souls tied to them.
And I honor myself—for surviving, for healing, and for choosing life.

Some butterflies are born in calm gardens.
Others must learn to fly in the storm.

I am the latter.