Grief, Love & Loss: Honoring Kevin's 40th Birthday

For the past couple of weeks, I have felt the weight of anticipatory grief. Birthdays, especially milestones, have a way of stirring memories that seem tucked away on ordinary days.

Suddenly, memories flood in, catching me off guard. A photograph, a song, or a fleeting thought transports me, making grief feel immediate and real. Sharing this helps others see how grief ebbs and flows, keeping the focus on personal experience. One minute, I was smiling as I looked at some of the infant and toddler photos of Kevin, his silliness, and his attachment to his older sister.

As I reflect on Kevin's birth and the gift he was to our family, I am reminded of these words:

"Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him." — Psalm 127:3 (NIV).

June 9, 1986, was one of the happiest days of my life. I had already been blessed with a daughter, and now my husband and I were eagerly awaiting the arrival of our second child. In those days, it was not common to learn the sex of your baby before birth, and truthfully, I preferred it that way. There were no gender reveal parties, no social media announcements, just the joyful anticipation of meeting the little person growing inside me.

My prayers were simple. I prayed for a healthy baby. Yet when the doctor announced, "It's a boy," I remember the excitement and joy that filled the room. At 8:57 that Monday morning, after only four hours of labor, Kevin Anand Itwaru made his way into the world, and our lives would never be the same.

Looking back now, I realize how many of my treasured memories are wrapped around the ordinary moments of raising Kevin and his sister. We celebrated birthdays with enthusiasm and creativity. There were Sesame Street parties, Ninja Turtle themes, bowling parties, sleepovers, movie nights, and barbecues at the park. Family and friends gathered to celebrate another year of life, and at the time, I never imagined how precious those seemingly ordinary moments would become. Today, when I look through old photographs, I am reminded that what we often take for granted in the present becomes the treasure we long for in the future.

Kevin was a bright and curious child. He surprised us all by learning to read at the age of four. He had a determination that often pushed him to challenge himself in ways that impressed those around him. By the age of twelve, he had earned his first-degree black belt in karate and completed his lifeguard certification. He was disciplined, focused, and willing to put in the hard work necessary to accomplish his goals. As he entered college, his interests expanded, and he eagerly explored new subjects and experiences.

Music, however, became his greatest passion. It was more than a hobby. It was part of his identity. Kevin devoted countless hours to practicing, composing, and creating music. Many people knew him by his social media name, SitarHero. Music allowed him to express parts of himself that words could never fully capture. In many ways, music was the language of his soul. Even today, when I listen to some of the music he loved, I feel connected to him in a way that is difficult to describe.

As parents, my husband and I wanted to provide our children with opportunities we could only have dreamed of when we were growing up in Guyana. Life was not always easy, but we were grateful for the opportunities we found after immigrating to the United States. We traveled extensively as a family, creating memories that remain precious to me today. We visited many states, explored Canada, cruised to Alaska and throughout the Caribbean, and experienced the beauty of Hawaii together. One of my favorite memories is our last major family vacation to Hawaii in 2008. Kevin was twenty-three years old, and it was his idea. Looking back, I realize that he simply wanted us to spend time together and celebrate life. Those memories have become sacred gifts that grief can never take away.

Turning forty is a significant milestone, and like many bereaved parents, I sometimes find myself wondering what Kevin's life would have looked like today. Would he have found lasting love? Would he have married? Would he have become a father? Kevin often told me that he did not want children because he worried about passing on mental illness. I respected that because it was his life to live. Yet like any mother, I sometimes find myself imagining the roads not taken and the chapters that were never written.

On February 28, 2020, our lives changed forever. After a twelve-year struggle with depression and mental illness, Kevin died by suicide. Even after six years, those words remain difficult to write. Suicide was never part of the future I imagined for my son. Like many families who have experienced this kind of loss, we believed there would be more time. More treatment options. More conversations. More opportunities for healing. Instead, we were left with heartbreak, unanswered questions, and a grief that reshaped every aspect of our lives.

Yet over time, I have come to understand something important. My life is not a painting, fixed and immovable, like a beautiful Monet, but it could still be beautiful. Life is an evolving story. The chapters are not always the ones we would choose, and some chapters bring unimaginable pain. Grief is certainly part of my story now, but it is not the entire story. The story also includes love, faith, resilience, family, friendship, and the countless ways Kevin continues to influence my life even in his absence.

Tomorrow, as Kevin would have celebrated his 40th birthday, I will remember not only how he died but how he lived-his kindness, humility, creativity, and the love he brought into our family. I will cherish the little boy who made me proud and the man who taught me lessons about compassion, authenticity, and courage, keeping his spirit alive in my heart.

Kevin's life mattered. His story matters. And as long as I have breath, I will continue sharing his story. Not because I am unable to move forward, but because love does not end when someone dies. Love changes form. It becomes memory, legacy, and presence. It becomes the stories we tell and the lives we touch because they once touched ours. Kevin's chapter may have ended too soon, but the love he planted in this world continues to grow, and that love remains part of my evolving story.

As I remember Kevin on what would have been his 40th birthday, I celebrate the gift of his life and the love that continues long after his passing.