April 14th, 2025
It always creeps in slowly—this deep heaviness I can’t quite name. I start to feel sad for no reason. My patience wears thin. I find myself more anxious than usual, struggling to sleep, zoning out in the middle of conversations, or crying unexpectedly. Everything just feels… off.
And then it hits me.
It’s April.
And April 15th is coming.
For me, this date carries more than just a memory—it carries an emotional storm. And even when I try to keep busy, stay strong, and focus on the present, my body remembers.
That’s one of the hardest parts of living with PTSD. The symptoms don’t always wait for the calendar to catch up. Sometimes, your body starts reacting days—even weeks—before the actual anniversary arrives. You don’t realize what’s happening until the emotions start bubbling up and spilling over.
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The days leading up to the date are the worst. My anxiety climbs and my patience thins. I become emotionally raw—everything feels like too much. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to be seen. Sometimes I forget to eat. Sometimes I eat everything in sight, trying to fill a hole that grief dug deep.
Memories I tried to bury float to the surface, vivid and cruel. My sleep gets worse. I become jumpier. The weight in my chest grows heavier. My body feels like it’s on high alert even when there’s no danger around.
I try to practice self-care—therapy, breathwork, journaling, walks in nature—but some years, even that isn’t enough. Some years I just need to survive.
And that’s okay.
What I Want Others to Know
PTSD doesn’t look the same for everyone. You may not see my panic attacks. You may not notice how my eyes scan the room. You might never realize how many things I avoid just to feel safe.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.
Living with PTSD means carrying pain that wasn’t invited. It means navigating a world that often doesn’t understand or accommodate invisible wounds. But it also means resilience. It means rebuilding—slowly, painfully, beautifully.
How PTSD Symptoms Can Creep In Before a Trauma Anniversary
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t follow a linear schedule. The symptoms don’t politely knock at your door and ask if you’re ready. They show up unannounced—and often subtly. Leading up to trauma anniversaries, you might experience:
- Irritability or emotional outbursts
- Insomnia or restless sleep
- Panic attacks or heart palpitations
- Flashbacks or intrusive memories
- Physical pain (headaches, stomach aches, fatigue)
- Dissociation or feeling detached from your body
- Heightened sensitivity to noise, smells, or stress
- A deep sadness that feels unexplainable
You may find yourself avoiding people, places, or conversations that remind you of what happened. Or maybe you’re constantly on edge, bracing for something bad, even if everything around you seems “fine.” It’s exhausting, and it’s real.
PTSD from sexual assault isn’t something I “got over.” It’s something I live with—and most of the time, I can manage. I can work. I can smile. I can function. I’ve learned how to ground myself when the anxiety bubbles up, how to breathe through triggers, how to choose who I trust and how much I share.
But when I’m triggered—when a scent, a voice, a date, a scene in a show, or even just the silence at night cracks something open—it all rushes back.
- I feel like I’m outside my body.
- I freeze in place, heart racing, throat tight.
- My skin burns like it’s being touched without my permission.
- I start to question my worth, my reality, my safety.
- I can’t focus. I can’t sleep. I can’t always explain what’s wrong.
And that’s the part people don’t always see. PTSD doesn’t always look like screaming or crying—it can look like avoidance, exhaustion, perfectionism, isolation, or dissociation.
What Helps Me Navigate April 15th
Here’s what I’ve learned (and am still learning) about managing the build-up to trauma anniversaries:
- Recognize What’s Happening
When I realized it was April—and that’s why I felt so heavy—it helped me name what was going on. That awareness brought a sense of control back. PTSD symptoms can feel chaotic, but naming the source of that pain can start to soften its grip.
- Give Yourself Permission to Feel It
You don’t have to be okay just because time has passed. You’re not weak for still being affected. A trauma anniversary is not about re-living the moment, but about honoring what your body and mind endured—and still carry.
- Reduce the Noise
In the days leading up to April 15th, I try to simplify everything. I limit my social media intake, avoid overcommitting, and prioritize what feels safe and grounding. If something isn’t essential or nourishing, it can wait.
- Create a Safety Plan
This doesn’t have to be complex. For me, it looks like:
- Having a cozy space to retreat to if I’m overwhelmed (for me, that is my garden or the stretching out on the sectional part of my couch.)
- Preparing comfort items (blankets, candles, tea, my journal)
- Letting someone I trust know the date is coming/ preparing soft plans with that person (I will be watching a movie with my mom tomorrow.)
- Let the Day Be What It Needs to Be
Some years I feel okay. Other years I need to cancel everything and just be. Whatever I feel, I try to allow it. I’ve learned not to judge myself for needing space, softness, or stillness.
You’re Not Broken—You’re Responding to Something That Mattered
If you’re reading this and also feeling a deep, unexplainable sadness, please know: your body might be remembering something your mind doesn’t want to revisit. That’s not a flaw. It’s a signal.
You don’t need to earn rest. You don’t need to prove resilience. You can honor your grief, your fear, and your healing all at once.
You’re not imagining it.
You’re not being dramatic.
You’re not too sensitive.
You are carrying something heavy—and the fact that you’re still here, still showing up for your life, still trying to heal? That’s strength.
April 15th will always carry pain for me. But I’ve also learned that I can carry it differently now. I don’t have to collapse under it. I can soften around it. I can create rituals that honor what I’ve survived, and reclaim my story—on my terms. I’m not the same person I was when the trauma happened. I’ve grown. I’ve healed. And I’m still healing.
Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means giving yourself permission to feel, grieve, rage, rest, and recover without shame.
So if this season feels heavy, you’re not alone. You’re not weak. You’re not going backward. You’re simply human, living through something your body refuses to forget—and that makes sense.
Your trauma does not define you, and anniversaries can be brutal—but you are still here.
That’s something worth honoring.