The Body Remembers

I went to the doctor today. Had a physical.

"Do you want a cookie?"

I hear you.

But here’s the truth: I haven’t always been diligent when it comes to my health or preventative care.

Still, while my father was in recovery, I realized how crucial it is to stay ready, so you don’t have to get ready.

My father passed away on February 16th at the University of Maryland. From the moment he was admitted until the moment he left his physical form, I never left his side. I was in the hospital every day—talking to doctors, taking notes, checking vitals, advocating. I was relentless.

So today, when the nurse walked me back to the exam room, something shifted.

The second she started asking routine questions, I felt it.

My chest tightened. My heart raced. I was short of breath.

It was like my body was on autopilot—preparing for another crisis.

The adrenaline hit.

I was scaring myself.

I was scaring the nurse.

She looked at me. And without saying a word, she hugged me.

And I cried.

Not a quiet, composed tear. I cried.

And then—I stopped.

It felt like a “pop.”

Like when you’ve been struggling underwater and finally break through the surface.

The air rushes in. Your ears clear. You remember you’re alive.

I had a panic attack.

Later, I called my girlfriend. She listened. And with love, she said:

“Girl… that’s the PTSD of grief.”

And she was right.

I hadn’t been around stethoscopes, patient gowns, or blood tubes since my father passed.

But today, I was.

And all those memories crashed down at once.

But here’s the thing—when I chose to let go… it let go of me.

That’s the point.

Grief is real.

It doesn’t pass. It doesn’t ask for permission.

And it can’t be avoided.

But it is natural.

And when you stop fighting nature—

Nature stops fighting you.