Summer’s arrival often hits me hard.

There is a headiness to it, the way the humidity falls in the air as the gardens bloom their last flower of the spring and the way the sun raises itself to what seems like the highest point in the sky.

It glares down sharply, and if I am being honest, the first day of it makes me nervous.

Summer’s arrival is a reminder of traumatic memories like a phantom pain.

I may know the pain is from years past, but here I am again reminded of that initial ache—that first bloom of despair.

It happens often during the first few morning walks of the summer season. I have tracked its timing for the past decade and noted how I subconsciously groan, shield my eyes, and catch the skip in my breath as my heartbeat speeds up.

The connection between the mind, body, and soul never ceases to amaze me.
I may always have this reaction to summer’s arrival, and I am learning to acknowledge the phantom pains as they are: phantom. Illusive. Figments. Something I cannot see or touch - but feel is there.

In these moments, I have learned to place my hand on my heart and envision myself standing ankle-deep in the ocean waves. The sharp, cold lick of the Atlantic bringing me back to my center self. I let my mind remind myself of the sound of the ocean waves, and I imagined the coastal fog surrounding me like a protective hug. Only the seagulls can see me, I tell myself.
And then…
Somewhere in the reminder of all that is grounding, safe and true - the phantom passes, and it is just me outside in the summer sun - with plans for the day and hopes for the weeks ahead.