The Body Remembers

My OOTD. T-shirt from Goat's Beard Mountain Supplies in Mazama, WA. A resupply stop along the PCT. How funny I wore this shirt today.

I was in a virtual meeting today.

The kind I’ve been in many times before—professional, focused, important.

I logged on not knowing who was attending.

Settled in. Ready to do the work.

Everything started off fine.

And then something unexpected happened.

Someone entered the screen that I wasn’t prepared to see.

Just a small square. A face among others.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing outwardly significant.

Nothing was said. Nothing happened.

The meeting continued as if everything was normal.

And I was fine.

Composed. Present. Clear.

I did what I needed to do.

But the moment it ended—almost immediately,

as soon as the screen went dark—

something in me gave way.

And I cried.

Not just tears—

but a short burst of full-body sobbing.

The kind that rises fast, moves through, and doesn’t ask permission.

It didn’t last long.

Just a few minutes.

And then it passed.

Not because of the meeting itself,

but because of everything my body still associates with him.

The body remembers—

the closeness,

the separation,

the excruciating pain of layered betrayals,

the explosion of my lived reality.

That’s the part we don’t always talk about.

How the body keeps its own record.

It doesn’t track things in timelines or tidy narratives.

It holds onto impressions—feelings, disruptions, moments that didn’t fully resolve.

And sometimes, all it takes is an unexpected encounter,

even through a screen,

to brush up against something that’s still stored there.

Even when your mind is clear.

Even when you’re no longer emotionally tethered.

Even when you know you’re okay.

The body remembers.

And when it finally feels safe,

or an unexpected trigger occurs—

it releases.

Not as a setback,

but as a continuation.

A long unwinding of something that mattered deeply, but no longer needs to be carried.