Birthdays and Blessings: Navigating Birthdays After Loss

My 50th Birthday Party

Cherishing Memories

As my birthday draws near, I find myself entangled in emotions far more layered than balloons and cake. Each year is a precious gift, yet it is also a tender reminder that Kevin, my beloved son, is not here to say, "Happy Birthday, Mom." His absence echoes in the silence where his laughter used to be, in the space where his hug should be, in the missing card or meal shared. These memories, filled with love, hit me with force even in quiet moments leading up to the day.

I've come to recognize this feeling as anticipatory grief—the ache that arises from knowing someone we love won't be there to share in a milestone. It lingers like a shadow, reminding me of what's missing. Sometimes, I even find myself noticing who else might not call, write, or walk through the door. That gentle ache can sting, but acknowledging it allows me to cherish the memories I do hold. In the midst of it all, I cling to God's promise: "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18)

Growing up, birthdays weren't really a big deal. The one that stands out was my 16th, which I celebrated with a few youth group friends. That day was special because my boyfriend, who would later become my husband, was quietly there, even though no one knew about us yet. To this day, that memory feels like a small gift I cherish.

Because my birthday falls near Labor Day weekend, school was never in session. That meant my classmates often forgot, and later, when I started working, it was much the same. Everyone was busy with plans or preparing for the new school year. That's why, when coworkers or friends went out of their way with a cake, breakfast, or even just a card, it meant so much. To be remembered, even in small ways, was a reminder that my life mattered to others.

Of all the birthdays I've celebrated, my 50th remains one of the most vivid. Sixteen years ago, about 150 friends and family members gathered to celebrate. Kevin was right by my side, eager to lend a hand. He even joined a dear friend visiting from Florida in planting marigolds to enhance the beauty of our backyard. What might have seemed like an ordinary task became for me a sacred memory of Kevin's care and presence.

With Kevin, 9/4/2009

Kevin often avoided buying generic Hallmark cards, preferring instead to make gifts that came straight from his heart. For my 2010 birthday, he created a handmade card. Inside, he wrote words of gratitude and included a line from Celine Dion’s “Because You Loved Me.” It meant so much to me, not only because Kevin wasn’t a fan of Celine, but because those lyrics spoke of being supported, uplifted, and loved through every season...You're the one who saw me through it all. During my darkest moments, I’ve returned to that card. His words remind me of his love and anchor me when the ache grows strong, just as God’s love steadies me when grief feels too heavy to carry.

Written by Kevin, 9/4/2010

On my 60th birthday, just a few months before Kevin's untimely passing, he gifted me a beautiful wooden carving featuring a profound quote by Eckhart Tolle: "Realize deeply that the present moment is all you will ever have." This thoughtful gift was truly special, capturing Kevin's creativity and deep spiritual journey. Each time I see it, I feel a warm reminder of his loving spirit and the inspiring call to cherish every moment we have. It’s a treasure that fills my heart with gratitude and joy.

Created by Kevin, 2019

Since Kevin's passing, when friends and family ask, “What are your plans for your birthday?” I feel their care, but the question carries weight. Celebrating feels different now—my heart pulled between joy and longing. This journey has taught me the importance of self-care. Sometimes that means taking time alone. Sometimes it means choosing a quiet day instead of a big celebration. Accepting these conflicting emotions is not a sign of weakness, but it's part of the grieving process.

The first birthday without Kevin was brutal. The weight of my grief felt unbearable. But my daughter, knowing what I was facing, surprised me by waking early and showing up at my house with balloons. My granddaughters ran in, their little voices singing "Happy Birthday, Grandma." It wasn't a joyful day in the usual sense, but it was significant. Their presence reminded me that love is still all around me.

Over the years, my daughter and granddaughters have continued to find creative ways to make the day special, whether through thoughtful gestures, shared, or even going to restaurants that serve Kevin's favorite foods as a way of honoring him. These moments remind me that grief and gratitude can coexist. I also see God's faithfulness through them, living proof of Psalm 30:5: "Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning."

Five years later, birthdays still carry both joy and grief. But something has shifted. I can laugh with my granddaughters, enjoy a birthday dinner, and feel Kevin's absence without drowning in sorrow and guilt. Grief has softened from raw pain into a bittersweet remembrance.

We remember some birthdays by quiet reflection, others by laughter and gatherings. Both are holy. Both are healing. Resilience is not about forgetting, but it's about carrying love forward into each new chapter. I have learned that grief does not mean the end of celebration, only a reshaping of it. Laughter and gatherings, in their own way, have a healing power, reminding us that love can still be present even in the midst of grief.

As my birthday draws near, I feel the story of my life unfolding gently, one day at a time. Kevin’s gentleness, his thoughtful gifts, his words, and the love he gave—woven with the care and devotion of my husband, daughter, and granddaughters—have shown me the quiet power of presence, gratitude, and grace. I will bring flowers to Kevin’s headstone, not in the way I once imagined spending this day, but as a soft, loving tribute, a way to include him in my birthday celebration. And yet, I also look forward to gathering with those who remain by my side, holding close the blessings God continues to place in my life, even amidst the ache of loss.

If you find yourself facing your birthday without someone dear, know this: it's OK to feel the emptiness. It's OK to cry, step back, and long for what was. And it's also OK to laugh, gather, and enjoy the gift of life still present. Healing does not erase the ache, but it simply makes space for light to grow around it.

Aging, too, has become something I've learned to embrace. Birthdays remind me not just of the years behind me but of the wisdom God gives with each season. We have only one life to live, and each birthday is a gentle nudge to live it more fully with tenderness, gratitude, and hope.

Though the pain of Kevin's absence will always be part of me, so will the love that continues to carry me. And that love, rooted in God, shared by family, and held in memory, reminds me that every birthday, no matter how bittersweet, is still a gift.

Happy early birthday to me!