Trigger warning: child loss.
This year, I won’t be hosting a birthday celebration for my daughter. There won’t be any gifts, no cake, no ice cream, and no joyful surprises. Instead, I’ll find myself at the nursery, purchasing fresh flowers to plant in her memory.
Today will not resemble the joyous birthdays filled with funfetti cupcakes and laughter. Instead, I will wake up, sip my coffee, and immerse myself in sorrow. There’s no party to prepare for, no visitors, just the cemetery where my heart will lead me. It’s a place that holds my grief, patiently waiting for me to arrive.
The sound of wind chimes from a section called “BabyLand” will fill the air, a stark contrast to the singing and celebrating of what should be her third birthday. Armed with granite spray and a microfiber cloth, I’ll gently clean her 22-inch memorial stone, tracing her little face with my fingers while my heart aches with memories of cradling her close.
I’ll grab my gardening shovel, dig a small hole, plant the flowers, and sit on the ground to grieve. Happy birthday in heaven, sweet girl. More than anything, I wish you were here to celebrate with me.
I don’t expect the world to pause for my grief; I understand that’s unrealistic. However, I hope for some acknowledgment that my pain isn’t defined by the dates on a calendar.
My sorrow isn’t confined to birthdays or special occasions we shared. It lingers in every small moment, and it’s painful to see how society often overlooks this reality. Losing an infant is an indescribable ache. While her birthday approaches, it’s not the only wound I carry. Grief knows no bounds and doesn’t always come with a warning. Mourning a child is limitless, and I often feel the world doesn’t recognize the way I navigate through my grief each day.
I’ve walked this path for two and a half years, and I’m open about the struggles that accompany my journey. Yet, I find myself wondering why the broken-hearted make others feel so uncomfortable.
My daughter should be celebrating her third birthday, yet she is not here. I still exist, even with the jagged edges of my heart.
My grief isn’t contagious, but I miss those who promised to stay by my side and then vanished. I miss the person I used to be, untouched by the pain of child loss.
Her death is permanent, while my coping mechanisms are often fleeting. There are times when I find it hard to muster the motivation to face the day. I won’t shy away from admitting that I sometimes use alcohol to numb the unbearable thoughts that haunt me at night. This is a part of my grieving process that I never anticipated being part of my life.
Post-traumatic stress disorder after loss is real and can strike at any moment, not just during those significant dates. Even my dreams betray me, forcing me to relive traumatic scenes. How I long to escape this relentless cycle of grief.
This nightmare of losing a child lingers, waking with me every day. Friends and family may be present one moment and absent the next, much like the child who left too soon. Their choice to ignore my grief is painful, and I wish for a deeper understanding of my experience.
My daughter should be turning three this summer, but I have been robbed of the joy of throwing her a birthday party. If life had unfolded differently, she would still be with me, alive and full of joy.
In moments like these, I can’t help but question why this loss had to be part of our story. She was a ray of light in a world filled with darkness, and her absence has taken so much from me.
Perhaps if others understood even a fraction of my struggle, they wouldn’t confine my grief to specific times of the year.
My pain is everlasting, and sometimes I feel doomed to a life overshadowed by negativity. But I refuse to let that heaviness define me.
One thing I know for certain is that I remain among the living. For her sake, I rise every morning and face the day.
As my daughter’s birthday approaches, I have no gifts to give her. Instead, I will plant flowers, sit by her memorial, and grieve. Happy birthday in heaven, sweet girl. More than anything, I wish you were here to share this special day with me.
For more resources on child loss, including financial support and connections with others who understand, check out our Child Loss Resource Page.