I knew John’s first birthday after he died would be difficult.
Rather than spending the day alone, I invited some of his friends to join me on my rooftop for a sunset toast. I had the food catered, not because it needed to be fancy, but because I wanted to be fully present. I didn’t want to spend the evening in the kitchen. I wanted to spend it remembering.
It had been six months since John died.
And they came.
As the sun sank below the horizon, I looked around at the people who had gathered to celebrate his life. They laughed at stories I’d heard before and shared a few I hadn’t. They remembered the little things that made John uniquely himself. They raised their glasses as the sky turned shades of orange and pink.
In that moment, I realized something I hadn’t fully understood before.
I wasn’t carrying his memory alone.
Grief has a way of making us feel isolated. We can begin to wonder whether we’re the only ones still thinking about the person we’ve lost. Whether everyone else has quietly moved on while we remain tethered to birthdays, anniversaries, and ordinary moments that still catch us by surprise.
That evening reminded me that love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It gets carried forward by everyone whose life they touched.
John’s story wasn’t mine alone to remember.
Years later, my mom taught me a different lesson about remembrance.
She didn’t like talking about death, but she was clear about one thing. She didn’t want people wearing black or spending her celebration of life in tears. She wanted bright colors. She wanted people telling stories. She wanted the day to feel like a celebration rather than a farewell.
So that’s exactly what we did.
We reserved a shelter house in a park. Everyone came dressed in bright colors. Instead of a formal luncheon, we invited two food trucks, one serving tacos and the other serving crème brûlée. Throughout the afternoon, people smiled as they shared memories, and more than once I heard someone say, “This feels exactly like Kitty.”
It was.
She had given us one final gift: permission to celebrate her life in a way that reflected who she truly was.
These days, when August 3rd arrives, I usually spend part of John’s birthday outdoors. Nature has become one of the places where I feel closest to him. The quiet reminds me that love doesn’t require elaborate traditions. Sometimes it simply asks us to pause, remember, and be grateful.
Lately, though, I’ve found myself thinking about my own birthday.
My birthday falls in October, one of my favorite months to be outside. Our family has always found reasons to gather, and over the years I’ve joked that I’m the glue holding everyone together after my grandmother died. I enjoy planning the get-togethers and making sure we stay connected.
Someday, I hope the gatherings continue without me.
I don’t care whether there’s birthday cake or champagne, a backyard picnic or a hike through colorful autumn leaves. I don’t need people to recreate my favorite traditions.
I simply hope they keep showing up for one another.
Because birthdays were never really about the person blowing out the candles.
They were always about the people gathered around them.
As someone who works in end-of-life education, I often encourage people to think about practical preparations, such as wills, advance directives, and the conversations that matter. But perhaps there’s another question worth asking ourselves.
If you couldn’t be present for your next birthday, what would you hope the people you love would do?
Would you want them to laugh?
To tell stories?
To share your favorite meal?
To spend the day in nature?
To gather around a table they might not otherwise have shared?
Your answer isn’t really about your birthday.
It’s about the legacy of connection you hope to leave behind.
Looking back on that rooftop six months after John died, I realize the greatest gift wasn’t the sunset or the catered meal.
It was discovering that I wasn’t carrying his memory alone.
And maybe that’s the greatest comfort we can offer the people we love, not the promise that they’ll never grieve, but the assurance that they will never have to carry our story by themselves.
