Sharing a Birthday

As if Alex’s birthday arriving on Monday wasn’t already heavy enough, it also happens to be his grandmom’s birthday.

That coincidence adds another layer to the grief—one I still struggle to put into words.

It’s hard to hold two truths at the same time:
to celebrate her life while mourning that Alex isn’t here to celebrate his.

I know that day will be difficult for her too.

Alex was her first grandchild.
Just like Alex made me a dad for the first time, he made her a grandmom.

There’s something sacred about that kind of “first.” It changes you. It opens a part of your heart you didn’t even know existed. And because of that, their connection was always special—before we ever knew how meaningful it would become.

They share a birthday.
The same day on the calendar.
The same beginning point, in different ways.

I imagine that for her, birthdays will always carry a mixture of emotions now—joy tangled with loss, celebration braided with remembrance. I know mine do.

How do you sing “happy birthday” when part of your heart is grieving?
How do you smile without feeling like you’re betraying the sadness that still lives there?

I don’t think there’s a right answer.

Maybe the answer is simply allowing both to exist.
Honoring the love without pretending the loss isn’t real.
Letting the day be what it is—beautiful and painful at the same time.

Because Alex didn’t just give me something.
He gave her something too.

A new title.
A new kind of love.
A bond that doesn’t disappear just because he’s no longer physically here.

That shared birthday will always connect them. Always connect us.

And maybe, in its own quiet way, that connection is another reminder:
love doesn’t end—it carries forward, even when it hurts.