The Grief Under the Cupcakes: Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is my mom’s birthday. She would be 62, but instead, she’s forever 57.

And somehow, 4.5 years after losing her, this birthday feels heavier than I anticipated.

I feel like I’ve gotten very good at living with grief. I can talk about my mom without immediately falling apart. I have a designated space to write and share about my grief thoughts. I can tell stories about her. I can look at pictures. I can celebrate her birthday and her death anniversary in ways that feel meaningful instead of only painful. I can make her favourite foods. I can bake cupcakes. I can talk about her with my daughter. I can live my life.

And I do.

But sometimes I think that is exactly what makes grief so strange this far into it… It’s almost invisible now.

When my mom first died, everyone could see my grief. It was obvious. It was raw. It was everywhere. Nobody expected me to be okay.

But now?

It’s been almost four and a half years. I’m a mom myself. I’m raising a little girl. I’m nearing the end of my maternity leave. I’m planning a first birthday party. I’m baking cakes. I’m making dinner. I’m preparing to return to the fulltime workplace. I’m doing all of the normal things that make up a life.

And underneath all of it, I still desperately miss my mom.

This week, that grief came crashing back in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. It started, as these things often do, with something seemingly small.

Cupcakes.

For the past few years, we’ve made cupcakes for my mom’s birthday. It became a tradition. We’d decorate them together, talk about Mom, spend time with family and make sure her birthday didn’t just pass by like any other day. I thought it would be our thing.

This year, trying to coordinate it with everyone became complicated. There are a lot of tricky family dynamics in my family, and I found myself trying to make everyone happy. Who should come? When should we do it? Who might feel left out? Who might feel uncomfortable?

And eventually, in the middle of all of that, I got my feelings hurt. And I cried. A lot. The kind of crying where you realize you’ve probably been holding in way more than you knew.

And after I cried, I realized something… it was never really about the cupcakes… It was about my mom. 

Of course it was.

I want my family to get along because I want us to be a family together. I want my niece and nephew to remember my mom. I want my daughter to know my mom. I want us to talk about my mom all the time, but especially on the days that are specifically about her.

But more than anything, I think I just want things to feel the way they are supposed to feel. I want my mom here.

I want to be able to call her and tell her about Charlee.

I want to ask her what I was like at this age.

I want to know what she remembers about being a mom when I was little.

I want to ask her questions I didn’t know I would someday wish I could ask.

I wanted her to see Charlee take her first steps.

I want her to know what Charlee is like.

I want her to watch me become a mom.

I want to tell her about my life.

And I can’t.

And I think that’s why grief can feel so invisible as time goes on. People can see that you’ve healed. They can see that you’re functioning. They can see that you are happy. And you can even be all of those things. But they can’t necessarily see the ache underneath it.

I can be happy. I can be okay. I can have an amazing life. And I can still miss my mom so deeply that sometimes I feel like I can’t catch my breath. Both things can be true.

So today, I’m going to decorate the cupcakes. 

I’ll probably cry. I’ll probably laugh. I’ll talk about my mom. I’ll tell stories. I’ll spend time with people who loved her. And I’ll look at my daughter and feel the ache of knowing that she will never know her grandmother the way I wish she could.

It will hurt. But it will also be meaningful.

Because my mom’s birthday still matters. She still matters.

And even though she isn’t here to celebrate another year, I am still here to remember every year she gave me.

She should be turning 62. Instead, she’s forever 57.

4.5 years later, I still miss her, and I know I always will.

I love you, Mom. Happy Birthday!