Stormeyes Enchanted

I think the unraveling has begun.

Not the dramatic kind.
Not the kind that announces itself loudly.

The quiet kind.
The kind your body knows before your mind is ready to admit it.

My jaw has been clenched so tight I can hear my teeth shift. Pain radiates from my jaw into my ears, down my neck, settling deep into my shoulders and mid-back. Every muscle feels locked—hard as marble—like it’s bracing for something it remembers too well.

This is muscle memory.
This is grief stored in the body.
This is what happens when the calendar creeps closer and the nervous system remembers what the mind tries to reason away.

I really thought year four would be different.

I told myself, I’ve got this now.
I survived the shock.
I survived the early devastation.
I learned how to breathe again.
I learned how to function, how to laugh sometimes, how to live alongside the loss.

But here I am.

And the truth is—I don’t have it.

When the Body Remembers What the Mind Tries to Manage

Grief doesn’t live only in memories or thoughts.
It lives in the body.

It lives in clenched jaws, shallow breaths, stiff shoulders, ringing ears, restless nights. It shows up without asking, without warning, without caring how much time has passed or how much progress you think you’ve made.

I can tell myself all the logical things:

• I’ve survived before.
• I know what this is.
• I’ll get through it again.

And yet, my body tightens anyway.

Because grief doesn’t follow logic.
It follows memory. It follows love.

And the body remembers the before-and-after moment in ways words can’t always reach.

The Myth of the Timeline

There’s this unspoken expectation that time is supposed to soften everything. That as the years pass, the pain should dull, the reactions should lessen, the grief should behave.

But grief doesn’t move in a straight line.

Some years are quieter.
Some years are heavier.
Some years surprise you with a sense of steadiness.

And some years—like this one—pull the rug out from under the idea that you were “past this part.”

Year four didn’t come with the strength I expected.
It came with exposure.
With honesty.
With the raw realization that I don’t get to outgrow grief.

I only get to keep learning how to live with it.

Letting the Rawness Show

I used to think showing this part meant failing somehow. That unraveling meant I was losing ground.

I don’t think that anymore.

I think this rawness is my body saying, Something important happened here.
I think it’s grief asking to be acknowledged again—not fixed, not rushed, not silenced.

I’m tired of pretending there’s a version of me that emerges from this untouched.
I’m tired of measuring myself against who I used to be.

I am changed.
And that doesn’t mean I’m broken.

It means I carry something heavy, every day, for as long as I walk this planet.

If You’re Unraveling Too

If you’re reading this and your body is tense in ways you can’t explain…
If your jaw aches, your shoulders won’t drop, your sleep feels fragile…
If you thought this year would be easier and it’s not…

You are not weak.
You are not failing.
You are not doing grief wrong.

You are remembering—sometimes with your whole body.

And today, I’m letting that be enough.

No lessons.
No silver lining.
Just honesty.

This is what grief looks like for me right now.

And if all you can do today is notice it, breathe through it, and stay—that counts.

Even when you don’t “have this.”

Love and Light ~Mandy