The Hardest Days: Birthdays, Anniversaries, and Other Grief Landmines
My birthday is this week and it got me thinking about all the birthdays my brother did not get to see. The weddings and births and Thanksgivings and Christmases and….
If you’ve lost someone you love, you know how craptastic these days can be. The calendar flips to that date and suddenly you’re ambushed by time itself. Maybe it’s your birthday without them. Maybe it’s theirs. Maybe it’s the anniversary of the day everything changed.
Whatever the occasion, these “special” days have a way of sitting on your head and farting or giving you a noogie. (Ok time to move on from the older brother jokes)
The Weight of Remembering
Grief warps time. Some days, it feels like decades since they were here. Other days, you swear you just heard their voice in the next room. Anniversaries and birthdays collapse those distances. They pull the past right up to the surface, raw and alive all over again.
People mean well when they say, “They’d want you to be happy today.” And maybe they would. But that doesn’t mean happiness is possible on command. Sometimes, remembrance is the most honest thing you can offer. Sometimes the best you can do is whisper, I miss you. I wish you were here.
And that counts as honoring them.
The Myth of “Milestones”
Milestones make sense when life is moving forward. Birthdays, anniversaries, achievements. But after loss, those same milestones can sting. Each year marks another lap around the sun without them, another candle on the cake they don’t get to see.
It’s not just grief for the person, it’s grief for the future you were supposed to share.
There’s no right way to handle these dates. Some people throw themselves into rituals like lighting candles, visiting graves, cooking favorite meals, etc. Others avoid them entirely, treating them like any other day. Both are valid. What matters is what feels kind to your nervous system, not what looks “appropriate” to anyone else.
If you wake up on your birthday and want to celebrate, do it. If you want to hide under a blanket, that’s fine too. You don’t owe anyone cheer.
The “Second Birthday”
There’s a saying in the grief world: after a major loss, you’re born again. You become someone new. Someone who understands fragility, depth, compassion, and pain in a way you didn’t before.
So maybe these days, the birthdays, the anniversaries, are a kind of second birth. A chance to pause and ask: Who am I becoming through this grief? Not despite it, not around it, but through it.
That question isn’t comfortable, but it’s powerful. Grief doesn’t destroy you. It rebuilds you. Every year you survive another lap through loss, you grow roots in places you didn’t know existed.
How to Survive the “Big Days”
Here are a few gentle ideas for navigating them:
Plan ahead, even if your plan is “do nothing.” These dates have emotional gravity; they pull on you whether you want them to or not. Name the day, choose what you need, and protect it.
Create a ritual that feels true. Light a candle. Write them a letter. Eat their favorite dessert. Tell a story about them out loud. It doesn’t have to be all gloomy, it just has to be real.
Give yourself permission to change your mind. You might wake up wanting company and end the day craving solitude. Let the day unfold without judgment.
Mark your growth. Take a moment to notice what’s shifted since the last time this date came around. You’re still here. You’ve made it through so many “firsts.” That’s not small.
A Birthday Reflection
So, here’s to another year. In the quiet and humble sense of I’m still here.
If today happens to be your birthday (then you’re an awesome Scorpio like me!), maybe you’re torn between gratitude and grief. You’re allowed to hold both. You can celebrate the life you’re still living while mourning the people who can’t join the party. You can cry while cutting the cake. You can laugh through tears. You’re still doing it right.
Birthdays after loss are not just about counting years. They’re about honoring survival, love, and the sacred mess of being human.
So light your candle. For them, for you, for all the versions of yourself that didn’t think you’d make it this far.
That flame isn’t just a reminder of what’s gone. It’s proof that something still burns.
