There is a misconception about grief—that with time, it gets easier. That the sharp edges soften. That eventually, the pain fades into something manageable. The truth is much different. The loss of a child does not get easier. The pain does not go away. It simply changes.
Most days, I carry it quietly. It lives in the background of my life, tucked into the corners of my heart. But in the shadows—when no one is around to hear, when no one is around to see—the tears come. The deep ache in my chest returns, reminding me that we are approaching Kenzi’s birthday.
This year, Kenzi would be 19.
We will mark her birthday, as we always do. But it is not a celebration of joy. It is a recognition of loss. Of heartbreak. Of what should have been. Of what could have been.
There is no picking out gifts for Kenzi. No balloons waiting for her when she wakes up. No asking where she wants to go to dinner. No planning a visit to her college campus, no watching her close her eyes to make a wish, no wondering what she hopes for her future.
Instead, I sit in a church pew.
I sit with her dad, her brothers, and her grandma beside me, while her sister attends her own mass thousands of miles away. I light a candle. I pray. I hold my grief quietly while it roars inside of me.
After mass, we write messages on birthday balloons—wishes, love, words we still need her to hear. We release them into the sky so she knows we are celebrating her. Nineteen balloons rise together, different shades of the rainbow—blues, pinks, yellows, greens, purples—floating upward, often tangled together, as if they are meant to stay close.
As I watch them disappear, I feel sad. And I feel angry.
I hate the wondering. I hate the wishing. I hate the pain that lives deep inside my heart at all times, even though it only breaks the surface a few times a year. Birthdays are one of those times.
I will never forget when I found out I was pregnant with Kenzi. Or when I learned she was a girl. I will never forget sitting in our home study with her dad, talking about names. We chose “Kenzi,” but we never chose a middle name—because I believed, with every ounce of my being, that she would live. That I would hold her. That I would watch her grow up.
Kenzi was never given a middle name.
When I had to fill out the paperwork with her name, I already knew she had died. I was still carrying her, knowing she would soon be born, and knowing I would only have her for a short time. That moment—signing those papers in my hospital bed with tears streaming down my face—was one of many firsts I would experience as the mother of a stillborn child.
Now, in the stillness of the days leading up to her birthday, the memories flood back. The tears fall and don’t stop. The ache in my heart feels almost unbearable.
I will never get over the loss of Kenzi. It will never get easier to know that a piece of me—a piece of my heart—will never be here. I will never be complete.
She is woven into every part of me.
Her name and her feet are tattooed on my ribs. A butterfly on my left wrist reminds me that she is with me in every yellow butterfly I see. Four small tattoo dots line my left middle finger—a reminder that I have four children, not just the three who walk this Earth with me. The two-Peace Lillies I was given when she died. The organization that was created in her name. The children we serve. The lives we touch.
I am a better person because I am Kenzi’s mom. I am deeply blessed to have her as my daughter and my inspiration to impact other children.
And still—there are days, and weeks, when the pain hurts beyond measure.
I will get through this week. I always do. But not without tears in the shower. Not without days when I don’t want to get out of bed. Not without days when I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not without lighting a candle at her birthday mass.
And then, eventually, I pack it all back up—for another day, maybe another year.
But on her birthday, I allow myself to be exactly what I am: a grieving mother whose only wish is to see her daughter again. To see her smile. To feel her warm embrace. To celebrate her birthday the way it was always meant to be celebrated.
Happy 19th birthday, Kenzi.
You are loved beyond words.
Always.
