Triggers.

We don’t always know what is going to set us off – that song, a smell, one word, a photo, a date on a calendar.

I laughed to myself as I walk/jogged through the neighborhood this morning. Every song on my 80s hairband Spotify playlist were slow love songs. “Following my body fatigue and setting my pace?” I mused.

I slept well. Woke up feeling refreshed. Started the day on the right path – exercise, shower, coffee, and Jesus.

“My Sunday morning self-care routine does not seem to be doing the trick today,” I complained to God.

Sundays are long days for me. Church does not meet until 1pm and work does not begin until 3pm, leaving me way too much time to be lazy and introspective. Sundays are also my workweek Mondays – and – I do better when I hit the ground running. Without that Sunday self-care kick in the pants, I can wind up feeling lethargic and bitter by the time I head for church.

I turned on my Roku to watch a little Tiny House Nation before time to get ready. Pictures of Bailey still litter my screen savers. Flashes of her and Ray Ray. Cuteness overload, melting my heart with sweet memories.

Followed by flashes of painful remembrances.

That last early morning.

Her painful wails after each seizure.

Knowing she would never come back home with me.

Her suffering.

My grief.

Why does the same picture bring such joy one day and such heartache another?

On my way to work, it dawned on me.

23.

Today is July 23 – exactly four months since that horrible day.

23.

A trigger.

“Will every 23 for the rest of this year be a trigger?” I pondered as I drove.

23.

Maybe.

But it’s okay. This is love. This is loss. This is life. This, too, shall pass.

Tomorrow is 24 – maybe I will be able to once again look at that sweet photo without heartache.