Two Realities

Every day, it feels like I am living in two realities at the same time.

In one, life keeps moving. There are birthdays, family dinners, plans on the calendar, friends coming over, races to prepare for, and moments that are supposed to be full of joy. There is laughter. There is love. There are still good things ahead of me, still good things happening around me.

In the other reality, there is grief. There is absence. There is the constant awareness of who is missing. There is love that still exists but has nowhere to go, nowhere to land, because the person I want to give it to is no longer here to receive it.

Both realities are real. Both are happening at the same time. And the truth is, I do not know how to live in both of them yet.

Last night we went to Dave & Buster’s for Jason’s best friend’s 21st birthday. Jason turns 21 on April 22, so the whole night already felt close to that milestone. It should have just been a fun night. Loud, ordinary, carefree. The kind of evening families are supposed to have without having to think too hard about any of it.

And in many ways, it was.

Then I saw him.

Not Alex. Not really. But a young man playing air hockey who looked shockingly like him. Roughly the same height. Similar build. Black hair worn in a way that reminded me of Alex. Similar black-framed glasses. It stopped me in my tracks.

For a brief second, it was almost comforting.

Not like seeing a ghost. Not eerie. Not unsettling.

It felt, for one impossible moment, like Alex was there with us. Like he was just another young man out enjoying life with friends, exactly where a 21-year-old should be. For that split second, it felt good to see him there. It felt natural. It felt right.

What hurt was not the moment itself.

What hurt was the crash back into reality.

That sharp, immediate awareness that it wasn’t him. That Alex was not there. That he is not coming around the corner. That he is not standing at the next game, or laughing with friends, or living the life he should still be here to live.

For a brief moment, he was there.

And then he wasn’t.

Jason turning 21 is supposed to be a happy milestone, and it is. I am excited for him. I really am. He deserves to be celebrated. He deserves joy, attention, and love. He deserves a day that is fully his.

But the truth is, Jason’s 21st birthday does not arrive by itself.

It comes tied to Alex’s 21st birthday.

Last year Alex turned 21, and less than two months later, I lost him. That is not some distant memory. That timeline is still too close, too sharp, too alive in me. So as Jason’s birthday approaches, I find myself standing in both realities again. One son is here, reaching this major milestone, and I want to celebrate him with everything I have. The other reached the same milestone, and now all I have left are memories and the ache of knowing how quickly everything changed after that.

That is what makes hard dates so hard.

They do not come alone. They bring memory with them. They bring contrast. They bring before and after into the same room.

I do not think guilt is the right word for what I feel. It is not that I feel guilty for being happy for Jason, or guilty that grief is tangled up in this. It is more that I have come to understand something I never wanted to learn: any happiness or joy I experience now is braided with grief.

That does not mean the joy is fake.

It does not mean the happiness is less real.

It just means grief is real too.

That is the part I think can be hard for people to understand unless they have lived it. This is not something I can neatly compartmentalize. It is still too real. Too raw. Too present. I have a difficult time trying to step into the reality of joy and happiness when the reality of grief is standing right there in front of me, staring at me, demanding attention.

Grief does not politely wait its turn.

It does not stand quietly in the background and let me borrow a few uninterrupted hours of peace. It comes with me into the room. It stands beside the celebration. It sits at the table. It walks through the arcade. It looks over my shoulder while I try to be present. It reminds me, over and over, of who is missing.

That is my life now

In one reality, there is love, joy, excitement, and the son who is here in front of me, deserving of a special birthday and all the attention that comes with it.

In the other reality, there is also love. Just as real. Just as deep. But it has nowhere to go. No place to land. No way to be received by the son I still want to celebrate, still want to see, still want to be here for.

Both realities are made of love.

That may be part of what makes it so hard.

As April 22 gets closer, what I am most afraid of is not grief itself. I already know grief will be there. I know Alex will be on my mind. I know this date carries more than one meaning now.

What I am afraid of is not being able to make it a special day for Jason.

Jason is precious. He is no less important to me than Alex. He deserves the same love, the same focus, the same effort, the same celebration. He deserves to feel fully seen and fully cherished on his birthday. And I worry about my mind drifting. I worry about memory interrupting the moment. I worry about trying so hard to manage my grief that I somehow fail to give Jason the full measure of what he deserves from me.

That is the tension.

Not choosing one son over the other.

Not loving one more or less.

But trying to honor the son who is here while the grief for the son who is gone stands beside me demanding to be seen too.

I do not have a lesson here. I do not have a resolution. I am not writing from some place of peace where I have figured out how to hold joy in one hand and grief in the other with grace and balance.

I have not figured that out.

I am being forced to stand in both realities at once, and I do not yet know how to do that.

I know life keeps moving. I know birthdays still come. Milestones still matter. Good moments still happen. I know Jason’s birthday deserves joy. I know he deserves a father who can show up fully for him.

I also know that grief is not something I can put in a box and set aside until it is more convenient. It is still here. Still raw. Still powerful. Still unwilling to be ignored.

So maybe this is where I really am.

Not at peace.

Not balanced.

Not gracefully holding joy in one hand and grief in the other.

Just standing in both realities at once, trying not to turn away from either one.

Trying to celebrate the son who is here while aching for the son who isn’t.

Trying to be honest about the fact that I do not know how to do this yet.

Maybe that honesty is the best I have to offer right now.

Two realities.

One asks me to celebrate.

One asks me to grieve.

And right now, I do not know how to fully do both.