Not this time. Not this year. Making U turns in the grieving process.

 On the 7th of September, every year, I open the box of yellow cake mix, stir in the oil and eggs, and then slowly and gently fill each paper cup with that thick pudding-like batter. As they bake, you can smell cake throughout the whole house. After they cool on the cooling racks, I carefully smooth the chocolate fudge frosting over top. A bowl of M&M’s waits patiently to be picked through. The blue ones are what I’m after. I place a single blue M&M in the middle of each cupcake, donning the symbol of her endearment, “blueberry.” It is her birthday after all. What’s a birthday without cupcakes?

I raise no decorations throughout the house. No presents are ever bought. Only letters are written. Notes from the kids; from siblings, cousins, and the friends she would’ve had, tucked away in helium balloons to send off to the sky in imagined hopes of her retrieving them. Then we eat the cupcakes.

The cupcakes that were meant for a little girl…

…a little girl that’s not. here.

Not here.

I’m a jealous mother. I want to hold and squeeze my blonde hair, blue eyed 8 year old girl. The one that would be turning into a little woman so fast before my eyes. The one that would be my niece’s sanity in the midst of being surrounded by boys. The one that would be teaching her younger sisters everything she knew, because... you know... she would know everything... Ah, I am so very jealous! It makes me angry. But mostly, it hurts. It hurts a lot.

This year will be 8 years. Why, after doing this for 7 years, am I coming to a point this year where I don’t want to do it? (I’m not sure I have an answer to that) I can’t promise I’ll feel like this next year, but for some reason, I just can’t do it this year. Not this time.

And that’s okay.

I’m not okay. (Don’t worry, I’m getting help for that.) But it’s okay that I do what needs to be done. If it’s going to be too much this year, then I call it off. This is part of my process. And I’m allowed that.

Sometimes in the midst of doing things consistently, you have to check yourself and make sure you are still okay with it. It’s okay, to be okay, with things that people deem weird. And it’s okay for you to not be okay, with things that people are expecting. You may get some push back, but it’s not about them. This is about allowing yourself to process your own grieving journey.

For me, this year it just feels like a slap in the face. I don’t know how I did it all the other years, but this year, my face already hurts just thinking about it. (literally and figuratively) I want to be able to just break down and cry without my whole family and the few close friends watching me. My closed doors have their freedom in that. Sarah’s siblings demanded to be able to release balloons still and that’s okay, I’m conceding for them. I need to allow them that because that’s also part of my job as their mother too. They still want to celebrate her birthday and I love them for that.

Obviously no one is safe from making “U turns” in their grieving process, no matter how long it’s been. This year has been an extra hard year for me and I’m making a lot of changes. I didn’t foresee me making changes here too, but it’s what feels right, right now. And I must follow it out. There will always be next year. I’m just glad I have a supportive family that keeps up with my change of weather, call it quirky, and love me anyway.


Not-so-Happy Birthday, my sweet Sarah. Your mother just simply misses you. 

Read her story here.

Read what we did last year for her birthday here.