My oldest son’s birthday is this month — and as it does every year, it brings with it a wave of emotion that’s hard to put into words.
On the outside, it’s a beautiful celebration: the day I became a mom for the first time. A moment that changed me forever. His laugh, his heart, his unique way of seeing the world — all of it is a gift I’ll never stop being grateful for.
But woven into that joy is a deep and quiet grief.
Because on the morning of his birthday in 2011, I got a phone call that would split the day in two: my father had passed away.
He had been sick — Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma — and my brother and I had reconnected with him during those final months, after years of distance. When my parents divorced many, many years earlier, it felt as if my dad had stepped away from our lives. Our relationship changed and drifted. And if I’m honest, I carried that ache for a long time.
But when the diagnosis came, and mortality entered the conversation, so did the chance for grace. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a movie script. But it was something. A thread of reconnection. A bit of healing. A chance to forgive and find some closure.
And then came that morning.
I still remember keeping it together as I lit candles and watched my son’s face glow with excitement as we held our tradition of waking them up with a treat, a candle and singing. I smiled through it all. I hugged him extra tightly. And then… I left. I left to meet my brother at the hospital, where we grieved by our father’s bedside. Where goodbye came quietly and far too early.
We decided not to tell the kids yet. They were still little — under 10 — and truthfully, they didn’t have much connection to him. We waited until the funeral plans were made and we could explain things gently, with love and calm.
But inside of me? I was split wide open.
That day taught me what it meant to hold two opposite emotions at once.
To celebrate and mourn.
To mother and grieve.
To keep going, even when your heart is quietly breaking.
What Carried Me
I can say this now — because I’ve had time and healing and lots of grace — but I couldn’t have done it without God. Truly.
In that season, I didn’t have fancy prayers. I didn’t have spiritual eloquence.
I had tears, silence, and a whispered, “Please help me.”
And He did.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
That verse became more than words to me. It became real.
In the years since, I’ve learned to let joy and grief sit at the same table.
To make space for memories that are both sweet and painful.
To not rush the healing, or pretend everything’s fine — but to trust that God meets me in the middle of the mess.
Growth I Didn’t Expect
Losing a parent — even one you had a complicated relationship with — still changes you. It made me reevaluate the kind of legacy I want to leave. It deepened my desire to be present for my kids. It made me more intentional with the way I love and forgive.
It also taught me that healing (and forgiveness) doesn’t always look like full reconciliation. Sometimes, it’s quiet acceptance. Sometimes, it’s releasing what never was and choosing peace anyway.
And every year, when my son blows out his candles, I smile with real joy. But there’s always that moment — just a breath — where I feel the weight of it all.
I’ve learned to be okay with that too.
If You’re in a Mixed Season…
If you’re reading this and walking through your own tangled-up grief, please hear this:
You are not weak for feeling both joy and pain.
You are not broken because healing is taking longer than you thought.
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
God isn’t waiting for you to get over it —
He’s with you in it.
Thanks for reading a piece of my story. If you’re navigating grief, estranged family, or bittersweet milestones, I see you. I’m with you. And most importantly — He is too. 💛
