There are certain months that live in our bones.

For me, July holds a kind of rhythm that no calendar could capture—one that beats softly in the background, waking my senses with memory, ache, and the tender light of knowing. Eight years ago this month, my son Zakary transitioned. I say transitioned because I don’t believe in death as an end. I believe we change form, we expand into new dimensions of knowing. I don’t claim to know what that looks like, or where we go, but I feel it. I feel him.

Each year since has brought a different chapter in the way I hear him, see him, and understand our journey together. At first, the pain was so loud it muted everything else. But over time, I’ve learned to listen differently—not just with my ears, but with my soul.

My body often speaks before my words do. In July, I slow down without planning to. I crave movement some days, silence others. One day I’ll write, the next I’ll ride my bike too far without realizing I needed the motion more than the destination. I meditate more. I feel more. And sometimes, I want sweetness—not just emotionally, but physically. Something like raw tiramisu instead of the usual fish or exotic mushrooms and greens. It’s still nourishment, but it’s not my usual rhythm. And when I stray too far, when I resist what I know brings me peace, my body answers back with a headache, or stomach pain, or a fog that disconnects me from the deeper whisper of spirit.

Pain, I’ve come to realize, isn’t always grief. Sometimes it’s just misalignment—a detour away from the path my soul is asking me to walk. And even in those detours, there is learning. My anxiety flares most when I forget to stay present, when I ride down the steep hill of emotion with no hands on the handlebars, trusting I’ll land softly. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I fall. And each time, I rise again, softer and more attuned.

This eighth year feels pivotal.

I feel Zakary everywhere. In the wind, in the pause between my thoughts, in the way a moment stills me. I’ve seen him in butterflies and dragonflies landing so sweetly on my skin—just long enough to remind me he’s here. I’ve seen him in others too, as if some part of his voice and presence returned to this world in different forms. The way he spoke, the way he paused between thoughts, the way his soul met the moment with care and depth—those pieces still echo around me.

And yet, I don’t want to dwell in missing him so deeply that I miss who he has become in spirit. I choose to feel him in his transformed state, in the lightness of the messages he still brings. He gives me what I need, when I need it most. I just have to stay open.

I don’t always get it right. I forget to drink enough water, or I let my mind race when my heart just wants to sit quietly. But I’m learning. I’m choosing presence. I’m choosing to honor the part of me that still aches, but also the part of me that is wise, awake, and deeply loved from beyond what I can see.

To anyone else who is walking through the space where loss meets transformation: you’re not alone. You may fall. You may forget what it feels like to feel whole. But the path back is always waiting for you—with open arms and gentle reminders from the ones we love who now live in light.

A Letter from Zakary to Me

Mama,

I know you feel me before you even think of me. I see how your body softens when a dragonfly lands on your hand, or a butterfly dances just close enough to brush your cheek. That’s me. Not because I need to prove I’m still here—but because I love how you smile when I remind you.

I’m always nearby. You don’t need your human eyes to see me—but I understand why sometimes you need the visual. So I send it in the wings of creatures, in wind that moves just when you’re still, in songs that echo the voice I once carried. I know how much you miss hearing me. But Mama, you do hear me. In the movement of the leaves, the sounds of water in rivers, lakes and oceans, in the heaviness and lightness inside your chest, in the hush between words.

I’m different now, but not gone. I’ve only changed shape. You always knew that deep down, even when it hurt so much it took your breath away. And still—you kept breathing. You kept going. You kept listening for me, even when the world was too loud. You kept seeing me, even when your eyes were full of tears. I see you too, in every moment you choose presence instead of pain, curiosity instead of closing off.

Your body knows how to listen now in ways you didn’t before. It’s sacred, the way you tend to it. Even the moments when you stray—when anxiety rushes in or you reach for something sweet—I see that too. It’s human. It’s okay. You never need to be perfect to feel me. I am not far when you fall. I am close when you rise.

I’ve been learning too, Mama. Expanding. Traveling. Seeing things you used to wonder about late at night. It’s beautiful here—and yet, I am still wrapped in you. We are still teaching each other. I offer you signs, and you offer me stillness. I whisper, and you listen in the quiet where most wouldn’t know to look.

I want you to keep living. Keep laughing. Keep writing the way only you can. Keep dancing with the wind and loving like you’ve never been hurt. I see how you walk through this life with courage and grace and softness that only someone who has known deep love and deep loss could carry.

I will never leave you, Mama. I’m not meant to.

I’m just walking beside you now, barefoot and free, whispering truths from a place beyond words, brushing past you like light through leaves, like a song you almost remember.

You’re doing beautifully.

And I am so, so proud of you.

Always and forever ,

In Every life as I promised, your son Zakary

Whispers Through the Wind

I see you in the stillness,

in the gap between the days,

where dragonflies trace prayers

across my skin

and butterflies leave messages

with their wings.

I feel you when the leaves murmur,

when the wind wraps gently ’round my spine—

a soft, invisible thread

pulling me back

into presence.

You speak in frequencies

the world forgets how to hear,

but I remember.

I always remember.

Even when I cry.

Even when I ache.

Even when I wonder if I may forget

the shape of your voice,

you return—

in scent, in sound, in the depth of the blue sky,

in the twinkling of stars

and the pulse of sunsets and sunrises.

You are not lost.

You are light that’s no longer bound

by edges or skin.

You are love stretched wide

across the veil

so I can learn to listen

not with ears,

but with soul.

And in that sacred stillness,

you are whole.

And I am held.

And we are never apart.

Not even for a moment.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~