Another Birthday, Another Year Without Kevin
Today is my birthday, and birthdays mean something different to me now.
There was a time when I looked forward to another year of life, excited about what lay ahead. I had dreams for my future, goals I wanted to accomplish, and a picture in my mind of what my life would look like as my children grew older and my grandchildren became an even bigger part of my world. I thought I knew what the next chapter of my life would hold. I thought my life was complete.
I never imagined how quickly that picture could change.
When Kevin died, I lost my only son, and with him, I lost the future I had imagined for all of us. His much-too-early and tragic death was earth-shattering, and it left me trying to make sense of a world that suddenly looked completely different. One moment I was living the life I knew, and the next, everything I thought I understood about my future had been turned upside down. Even now, six and a half years later, there are days when I find myself asking, How is this possible? How can Kevin really be gone?
There are also days when I find myself searching for the woman I was before his death. I sometimes wonder what she would think if she could see my life now. She had plans and dreams for her future. She thought about retirement, traveling, spending time with her children and grandchildren, and simply enjoying the years she had worked so hard to reach. She believed that life was moving in a certain direction. Then, in an instant, the future she had imagined changed forever.
Sometimes I find pieces of that former life in the things I have saved, like Kevin's handwritten birthday card from 2011, which I cherish deeply. Kevin had gifted me a crochet book and encouraged me to create something beautiful, “like yourself.” He ended his message with, “I love you, Mom.”
Reading those words now brings me back to a time when I could never have imagined what was ahead. Kevin was beginning his own career and building his life, while I was thinking about what the next chapter of mine might look like. Neither of us knew how much life would change in the years that followed.
I found another birthday card from Kevin that I had saved, and this one touched me deeply. I had forgotten about it until I came across it again. Reading his handwritten words brought tears to my eyes because he told me something every mother hopes her child knows and feels. He wrote about loving me for being myself, about how I helped him become a better person, and how much my love and support meant to him. As I read his words today, six and a half years after his death, I am reminded that although I still have questions I may never be able to answer, I never have to question whether Kevin knew he was loved. He knew. He told me so in his own handwriting, and that is something I will carry with me forever.
These cards are tangible pieces of my son and a reminder of the love that existed between us.
I have learned how to live again, although I don't think “live again” means what I once thought it did. I do many of the things I did before Kevin died. I travel, volunteer, write, spend time with family and friends, laugh, make plans, and celebrate important occasions. From the outside, I may look like someone who has moved forward. And in many ways, I have.
But moving forward has never meant going back to the person I was before Kevin died. That woman no longer exists in exactly the same way, because how could she?
Losing a child changes something deep within you, especially when it comes through suicide, adding layers of pain and questions that make grief more complex. There are questions about what happened, what we missed, what we could have done differently, and whether we should have known. Some of those questions may never have answers, and that is one of the hardest realities of grief, as we search for explanations that may never come.
September is Suicide Prevention Month, and for many people, that may mean seeing reminders to check on someone, learn the warning signs, have difficult conversations, and take emotional pain seriously. I am grateful for those conversations because I know how important they are.
But for families who have lost someone to suicide, suicide prevention is not simply a month on the calendar. It is personal. It is a name, a face, a voice, a memory, and an empty place at the table. It is a life that should still be unfolding.
Kevin's death has taught me that suicide leaves a lasting impact on everyone who loved him. Families carry the loss into birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and everyday moments when memories resurface unexpectedly. Life continues, but it does so differently, and the world does not stop even when ours has.
And yet, I don't want Kevin's story to be defined only by how he died.
Kevin was so much more than the circumstances of his death. He was my son. He was a brother, a grandson, a friend, a musician, a creative and intelligent young man with a degree in biomedical engineering, who loved music and had so many gifts to share with the world. He was the person who wrote birthday cards to his mother, made me laugh, encouraged my dreams, introduced me to sushi, and left pieces of himself behind in the ordinary moments of our family life.
Those are the pieces I want to hold onto.
At the same time, I grieve the life I thought I would have and the years Kevin should have been here to share with us. I no longer believe that I have to choose between being grateful for my life and grieving the life that was lost.
Perhaps that is one of the greatest things grief has taught me. We can carry joy and sorrow at the same time. We can laugh while missing someone terribly. We can make plans for tomorrow while still wishing we could change yesterday. We can continue living without leaving the person we lost behind.
I will look at those old birthday cards and remember the handwriting, the humor, the love, and the son who gave them to me. I will remember that Kevin's life was so much bigger than the circumstances of his death. He was here. He was loved. He mattered. And he still matters.
Today is my birthday, and I am stepping into another year carrying all of this with me. I am not the woman I was before Kevin died, and I have stopped expecting myself to be. I am a woman shaped by love, loss, and everything I have learned in the years since. I don't have all the answers. I may never have them. But I am still here. Perhaps the work of grief is not about finding our way back to who we were, but learning how to become who we are now while carrying the love, memories, and losses that have shaped us.
That is how I will celebrate my birthday this year: with gratitude for the life I still have, with grief for the life I lost, and with a love that death could never take away.
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