The Q life Grief Journey

This Sunday is your birthday, Quinten, and this is the first one where I don’t get to see your face, hear your voice, or wrap my arms around you. I don’t get a phone call, a smile, or a hug that always made your birthdays feel complete.

And I need you to know how much that hurts.

Birthdays are supposed to be about celebrating life, but today feels different. It feels quiet. It feels heavy. It feels like the world is acknowledging time moving forward without you, and I’m not sure my heart is ready for that yet.

I keep thinking about all the birthdays before this one. About you calling me, even before you were sick. About how you never forgot to make time for me in your life. Those memories are both a comfort and a heartbreak today.

I miss you in ways words can’t fully capture. I miss your laugh. I miss your presence. I miss the way you made everything feel more grounded just by being here. I miss who you were and who you were still becoming.

Today, I find myself talking to you quietly, telling you all the things I would say if you were here. How proud I am of you. How brave you were. How deeply you are loved. How your life continues to shape mine, even now.

I wish I could tell you “Happy Birthday” in person.
I wish I could see you smile.
I wish this day didn’t carry so much longing.

But even in your absence, you are still here with me. In my heart. In my memories. In the love that refuses to disappear.

So today, I honor you.
I speak your name.
I hold space for the joy you brought into this world and the ache of missing you.

Happy Birthday, my son.
I will carry you with me through every year that comes after this one.

I love you always, Mom.