When I was a coach before having kids, I taught my students to celebrate every win. Plenty of other coaches disagreed with that approach, but it has served me well in parenting my child with HIE.
There was a time I wasn’t sure we’d ever celebrate a birthday. The early days were full of numbers — blood gases, Apgars, MRIs — and all of them terrified me. I wasn’t planning a party. I was bracing for the possibility of losing my baby to HIE.
So when that first birthday came, we didn’t just celebrate a year. We celebrated survival. We celebrated that he and we made it through a year of unknowns, delays, heartbreaks and the joyful moments of being first-time parents along the way.
We celebrated the fierce love that carried us through.
But here’s the part we don’t always talk about: birthdays are complicated.
There’s joy — of course. But also grief.
Grief for the birth I imagined.
Grief for the trauma that lives in the backdrop of every candle and balloon.
Grief for the unknowns that still linger.
There’s pride. And sometimes survivor's guilt.
There’s celebration. And sometimes tears behind the cake.
And all of that is okay.
We’ve learned to hold space for all the feelings. We don’t chase picture-perfect. We chase presence. Meaning. Gratitude.
We celebrate everything — therapy wins, deep breaths, first trips, inchstones and even milestones.
And when the birthdays come, we meet them with softness. With reverence. With whatever we’re carrying that year.
Because this life? It’s not simple. But it’s worth celebrating.
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