This week of the year holds a complicated mixture of markers in our household. The last day of school happens for my two elementary school-age children, along with the many clear and poignant indicators of their growth, evolution, and hopes for the future. 

And then May 20th arrives, which is the birthday of my stillborn son, born thirteen years ago at full-term, on his due date. 

Over the years I’ve realized that all kinds of meaning can mesh together, that celebration can live next to tragedy, that growth can coexist with decay, that addiction can give release to freedom, that life can cohabitate with death. The interplay of all of this is what makes up our meaningful lives. We can cultivate an appreciation of the difficult as deeply as we can appreciate the joyous. In fact, one might require the other.

I used to think I was odd for seeing things this way, that my ability to bridge worlds was a detriment. Now, I realize it is a unique gift and I’ve embraced it as my superpower.

I’ve made great strides in opening my heart to mothering my first-born son—it has become clear to me that he still needs his mama and with each passing year I become more acquainted with his innocent yet knowing presence. All-encompassing searing grief has made room for a quiet and loving connection. I believe this practice of communication makes me a better, more conscious mother and human. 

Mostly, I’m grateful to sit peacefully under a tree in a park. The same park I walked in sorrow after my son’s passing. I feel the wind around me gently moving branches above and consider the roots of the Cypress tree I sit beneath. 

I know that later I can hug my living kids and I am grateful. Grateful to have an abundance of meaning in our lives and no absence of love. 

I wish this for everyone.