The weight of memory

The Weight of Memory

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.” — Oscar Wilde

Memory changes with time. It doesn’t disappear all at once. It softens. It shifts. It makes room.

Back in September, we sold Ryan’s very first car. By then, it had been part of our family story for years. He was so proud when he bought it, researching the model, contacting the seller, negotiating the price, and driving off with confidence and joy. Years later, after our daughters had outgrown it, it was time to let it go.

I knew we couldn’t keep every physical piece of Ryan’s life. The walls he brushed past as a child have long been painted over. The toys he once fiercely protected were given away as he grew. The scent that once clung to his clothes faded quietly over time. That’s the natural rhythm of family life. We move through stages. We tidy. We make room for what comes next.

When our kids are growing up, we do this without fear. We let go because we know there will be more. More memories. More milestones. More moments waiting just ahead.

But when that rhythm is interrupted, something changes.
There are no new mementos to replace the old ones.
No new chapters are being written in quite the same way.

We are left with memory.

December has a way of slowing everything down. The decorations go up, the lights flicker softly against the snowy backdrop, and suddenly, the year feels grounded with reflection. We look back more than usual. We remember what was. We notice what’s missing. Traditions resurface. Old photos come out. Memories we didn’t expect: finding us randomly in grocery store aisles.

I am grateful for the memories, and I’m also honest about the fear that comes with it. Memory fades. Some days, I can picture Ryan so clearly. Other days, it takes more effort. I don’t always remember the exact sound of his voice, or the way his hugs felt. No new memories are being added to reinforce the old ones.

Maybe that’s why this season can feel complicated. Christmas asks us to gather, to celebrate, to carry on, while quietly reminding us of who should be there and isn’t.

And yet, life continues to offer grounding in unexpected ways.

Earlier this month, I launched Let’s Talk About Dinosaurs. That book didn’t come from loss. It came from life. From the family we built. From bedtime routines, curiosity, laughter, and love. It brought earlier memories into focus and reminded me that our story is rooted in so much more than one moment in time. Not just as Ryan once was, but who we were together.

That matters.

Our story does not begin or end with Feb. 17, 2018.
It is rooted in the life we created, sustained, and cherished long before that date.

Even small moments affirm that truth. When the family who bought Ryan’s car reached out months later to share how happy their son was, it felt right. Not heavy. Not painful. Just right. Something once loved continues its journey.

So maybe this season isn’t about forcing joy or rushing healing.
Maybe it’s about tending to memory the same way we tend to Christmas itself, with care, intention, and gentleness.

Say their name, even at the table.
Hold space for stories, especially the ones that surface unexpectedly.
Create quiet rituals, small and meaningful, just for you.
Let others carry a piece of the memory, even if it looks different than before.
Be kind to yourself when the season feels heavier than bright.

Maybe that’s the grace of Christmas after loss. It doesn’t ask us to forget. It invites us to remember, with love, not fear.

I’ll always wish for more time, more moments, more laughter. But this season, I’m grateful that the things Ryan loved continue to move through the world, his car, his kindness, his light, finding their way into other lives, other moments, other hearts.

Life changes.
Memories fade.
New ones are built.

But we never forget.

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.” And over time, we learn that its pages are not erased. They are simply turned, held close, and carried forward.