I still mother them….

In two weeks, I turn 60.

That number feels impossible to me.

When I was younger, 60 sounded old. Now it feels like a gift. Not everyone gets the chance to turn 60. Not everyone gets tomorrow.

The truth is, this birthday looks nothing like I imagined it would.

I thought Vincent would be here.

I thought Gabriella would be here.

I thought there would be a crowded dinner table, too much food, too much noise, and somebody teasing me about getting older.

Instead, I find myself holding gratitude and grief at the exact same time.

Seventy-nine days ago, my daughter died.

Almost nine years ago, my son died.

Those are still sentences that catch in my throat.

People think grief is sadness. Sometimes it is. But mostly, grief is all the things nobody talks about.

It’s hearing someone complain about their daughter and feeling a pang of jealousy because I would give anything to hear Gabriella complain about her day.

It’s seeing something funny and instinctively thinking, “I have to tell Vincent that.”

It’s seeing a shirt, a song, a restaurant, or a meme and knowing exactly which one of them would have loved it.

It’s your heart forgetting for a second before your brain reminds you they aren’t coming back.

There are also the things I save.

The cards.

The photos.

The text messages.

The handwriting.

The little pieces of them that have somehow become priceless.

And then there are the people who stay.

The people who still say their names.

The people who still tell stories about them.

The people who show up without trying to fix anything.

The people who simply love you through it.

I’ve learned that grief and love are roommates. You don’t get one without the other.

My blog is called I Still Mother Them because that’s exactly what I do.

I still mother Vincent.

I still mother Gabriella.

I tell their stories.

I say their names.

I carry them with me everywhere I go.

I advocate for other families because I know exactly what it feels like to get the phone call that changes your life forever.

Mothering didn’t end when they died.

It just changes.

This year, I’ll celebrate my birthday in California with people who love me fiercely.

The funny thing is, it isn’t about where we’re going or what we’ll do.

If we never left the house, I’d be perfectly happy.

The moment I step off that plane, I feel safe.

Not vacation safe.

Soul safe.

The kind of safe that comes from being completely surrounded by people who love you exactly as you are.

No judgment.

No expectations.

No mask required.

No pretending you’re okay when you’re not.

Just people who know the worst parts of your story and love you anyway. Maybe live you more because of it.

People who let me laugh when I want to laugh, cry when I need to cry, talk about Vincent and Gabriella whenever I want, or sit quietly when I don’t have the words.

The moment I step off that plane, I feel completely enveloped by love.

At this stage of my life, I’ve realized that is one of the greatest gifts a person can receive.

At 60, I’ve learned that the greatest gift isn’t things.

It’s people.

It’s the people who stay.

The people who answer the phone.

The people who show up.

The people who sit beside you when your world falls apart and who celebrate with you when you find reasons to smile again.

This isn’t the birthday I imagined.

But it is the birthday I’ve been given.

And if losing Vincent and Gabriella taught me anything, it’s that none of us are promised tomorrow.

So I’ll celebrate.

I’ll laugh.

I’ll probably cry.

I’ll eat the fudge. I’ll sprinkle their ashes. I’ll eat at my favorite restaurant in the whole world.

I’ll hug the people I love.

I’ll be grateful for every single candle on that cake.

And I’ll do what I’ve always done and what I’ll continue to do for the rest of my life.

I’ll love my children.

I’ll talk about my children.

And I will still mother them.