We Remember in Our Own Way

Memorial Day isn’t just the start of summer.

It’s also a time of memory.
Of honoring.
Of holding close the people—and moments—that shaped us.

Some of us remember our grandfathers who served.
Some of us remember a sibling, a friend, a version of ourselves we’ve outgrown.
Some of us remember with silence.
Others with carne asada, chicken-fried steak, or a playlist of songs they used to love.
And some of us remember members of our own, often hidden, autism community—people whose lives were short, misunderstood, or simply not honored in the way they deserved.

So we asked: What does remembrance mean to you?
Before we share your words, we’ll go first.

I remember my grandmother’s emphysema cough.
How she smoked right until the end.
Her frosted nails, always singed at the tips—little burn marks from living on her own terms.
Her misfit thinking. Her bold nature.
I inherited that fire—without the extracurriculars.
I carry it forward.

I remember the undiagnosed autistic adults I’ve known.
The ones who were left behind because they weren’t “official,” or shoved off, or called something else.
And I still wonder about them. Some are gone now.
And I wish they had been given better.

I remember the Memorial Days that were hard.
When we couldn’t leave. Couldn’t go anywhere.
Therapies ran deep.
The idea of traveling—of even walking on a boardwalk, never mind a beach—felt impossible.

Now, we can plan.
We can board trains, planes, and lean into new rituals.
And now we get to remember from a place of movement.

Sometimes it’s a song.
Every time “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” by Michael Jackson comes on the radio, I know my brother and my father—a veteran—are somehow moonwalking in heaven.

My children always comment on my brother’s Savant-like ability to sing like Michael Jackson, as if they know exactly what I’m thinking.

Remembrance, to me, means keeping the legacy of the good stuff alive on earth—even if the relationships were rocky.

— Kathryn, Founder of The Savants

From Our Community

“Thinking of my grandparents—what their story of life was.”
— @foto_hamburg75

“Remembrance is paying tribute to the people who fought so we could live the way we do today… I also remember my grandfather, a WWII pilot who survived being shot down three times. My mother. My uncle. My first cat. I remember them as well.”
— @dianedsp1

“The song ‘All Those Years Ago’ by George Harrison always brings remembrance to me of my dad… He never talked much about his service, but he was my first anchor—and losing him was my first grief.”
— @ajmunsey_45

“Hearing taps playing while the flag was lowered in the American Cemetery in Normandy was a moment I’ll never forget.”
— @bobquigs

Remembrance doesn’t have to be loud.
It doesn’t have to be patriotic, or public, or wrapped in tradition.
Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s playful. Sometimes it’s bittersweet.

It can be the legacy of a cough.
A favorite meal cooked just right.
A song that makes your kids say, “He sounds just like your brother.”
A moment of stillness in the middle of a long weekend.

This Memorial Day, we’re holding space for all of it.
We remember in our own way.