Heidi's 2nd Heavenly Birthday

On May 4th, Heidi would have turned two.

My husband, our 8-month old son, and I spent the day at her grave, bringing flowers and simply being with her. We set up a large umbrella for shade and shared a quiet lunch of tacos, chips, and salsa beside her. We lit candles, sang

her happy birthday, and wrote her a birthday card. We looked through photos from when we first met her and talked about her as if she were sitting right there with us. In many ways, she was.

Last year, I tried to make everything “perfect” for her birthday. I ordered an elaborate cake, and when it arrived, it was nothing like what I had envisioned. I remember standing there in tears, feeling like I had already failed at something that mattered so much to me.

My husband suggested that we create a new tradition instead - making her a homemade cake. This year, we made her a chocolate cake with sprinkles. I added a pink “Happy Birthday” candle and gold bow candles. We also had four dozen personalized cookies decorated beautifully. I ordered shirts for all of us that said “Mommy to the birthday girl,” “Daddy to the birthday girl,” and “Brother to the birthday girl.” I even picked out plates and cups from HomeGoods so that everything felt like a typical birthday.

About a month before her birthday, I also wrote and mailed birthday cards for her. I sent them to close friends and family so they would remember her day and feel invited to celebrate in their own way. Last year I encouraged them to do whatever felt meaningful, whether that meant wearing pink, lighting a candle, or even simply saying her name out loud. Some people even chose to order food and use her name, something I still do myself from time to time, just to hear it spoken.

This year, I asked those closest to me to make a flower arrangement in her honor. During the first year after she died, I would do this weekly. It felt like a way to still mother her in some small, tangible way. Seeing others participate this year was really special. It reminded me that she is still remembered, still loved, still spoken about.

Her birthday fell on a Monday, so I took the day off work. I wanted space to feel whatever came up without rushing through it. I brought a “2” balloon and placed it at her grave so that anyone passing by would know she was being celebrated.

Celebrating a child who is not here is something I still do not have language for. As a mother, you imagine birthdays filled with noise, excitement, and presence. Instead, there is silence and absence sitting right alongside love. There is also this pressure that if you do enough, if you plan enough, if you make it beautiful enough, it will somehow feel like it balances out what was lost... But it never truly does. Nothing can change that she is not here.

And yet I still find myself asking what “enough” even means. Is there a right way to celebrate a life that never got the chance to grow? Or is it more about continuing to show up in whatever way you can, even when it feels imperfect and uncertain?

At times I also find myself sitting in a different kind of question. If Heidi is in heaven, then she is whole. She is not waiting for cake or candles or flowers. So maybe this is not really for her in the way I once thought it was. Maybe it is for us. For me. A way to keep loving her out loud. A way to keep her name present in a world that never got to know her here.

So we keep showing up. We keep celebrating. We keep learning what it means to love someone who is no longer physically here, but still so deeply part of our lives.

And somehow, even in the heaviness, there was something incredibly special about that day.

With Care,

Heidi's Mom, Jamie