Grief in The Days Leading Up to His Birthday

Elias' mum cradles her baby bump at her baby shower, smiling widely with a green balloon arch in the background

Every year, as Elias’ birthday approaches, I feel it coming long before the date itself. The weight in my chest, the lump in my throat, the tears that seem to sit permanently behind my eyes. I’m four years in now, and it still hits me just as hard.

These days are some of the hardest. Not because I’m not proud of how far he’s come (or how far we’ve come), but because I can’t help but think back to the woman I was in those days just before he was born. The woman who had no idea what was coming. Who was full of excitement and thought she was about to live one of the happiest days of her life; and instead found herself living through some of the scariest.

Every year, my Google Photos brings those memories back. The bump pictures, the smiles, the excitement. And then the hospital photos that followed. The ones that still make my stomach drop as I see my tiny little baby hooked up to machines to help him breathe and keep him alive. It’s like being forced to relive every moment, every fear, every unanswered question all over again.

I look at the woman in those photos pre-baby and I used to feel sorry for her. She didn’t know how hard it was about to get. She didn’t know the strength she’d have to find. She didn’t know that life was about to change forever in ways she couldn’t imagine.

And yet, she did it. I did it.

That’s what I try to remind myself every year: It’s OK to feel sad. It’s OK to grieve the version of life you thought you’d have, even as you love the one you have now with everything in you.

I always feel desperately guilty for the sadness; what right do I have to be sad? Elias is here, he's thriving (despite the fact I hate this word), we're so lucky. But those memories haunt you forever, they never leave you alone, no matter how well your child recovers.

No one else will ever fully understand what those days mean to you; that mix of joy, grief, pride, and pain. But to the parent reading this who feels the same heaviness on the anniversary of certain milestones in your child's journey, please know this: You’re not broken for feeling that way. You’re not ungrateful. You’re human.

You lived through something most people can’t even imagine, and you carry that with you, but you also carry the proof that you made it through.

So if the tears come, let them. Light a candle or burn some sage. Look at the photos. Honour that version of yourself who didn’t know what was coming, but kept going anyway.

Because she deserves to be remembered too.