Every year, birthdays come around whether we're ready for them or not.

As the date gets closer, something begins to shift inside of us. We notice the calendar. We count the days without meaning to. We find ourselves thinking about what this birthday will feel like. Will it be harder than last year? Easier? Different? We don't really know until we're in it.

And while we're carrying all of that, the world often stays quiet.

Most people don't ask how we're doing. They don't ask what we're planning. I think they're afraid they'll remind us that our child is gone. But the truth is, we haven't forgotten for a single moment.

Sometimes that silence can feel just as lonely as the grief itself. In that quiet, many of us start asking ourselves a question instead.

Am I doing this the right way?

The longer I've walked this road, the more I've realized there isn't one.

Some families throw birthday parties. Some visit the cemetery. Some bake a cake. Some spend the day volunteering. Some stay in bed. Some laugh. Some cry. Most of us do a little of both. None of those choices are wrong. For our family, we still celebrate Mitchell's birthday. We decorate. We sing Happy Birthday. We eat cake. His siblings get excited because, to them, he's still their brother. We tell stories that somehow make us laugh and cry at the same time.

To us, Mitchell's birthday is still a birthday.

Celebrating him isn't pretending he isn't gone. It isn't ignoring the pain. It's acknowledging that he lived, that he mattered, and that he will always be part of our family.

But if you're reading this and thinking, I could never do that, I want you to know something. That's okay. If your child's birthday feels too painful to celebrate, that doesn't mean you love them any less. If getting out of bed is all you can manage that day, that is enough. If your way of honoring them is lighting a candle, visiting the cemetery, making their favorite meal, taking a drive, looking through old pictures, or simply whispering their name, that counts too. Love isn't measured by how elaborate your remembrance is.

One of the hardest parts of grief is feeling like we have to justify our choices. Some people may wonder why you celebrate. Others may wonder why you don't.

The beautiful thing is...This day doesn't belong to them. It belongs to you and your child.

One of the greatest gifts someone has ever given me wasn't pretending Mitchell's birthday didn't exist. It was remembering that it did. Hearing someone say his name. Receiving a simple text. Watching someone remember that he should be turning three. Those moments remind me that the world hasn't completely forgotten the little boy who changed ours forever.

If you have someone in your life who has lost a child, don't be afraid to acknowledge their child's birthday. You aren't reminding them of something they've forgotten. You're reminding them that their child mattered enough to be remembered.

That is a gift. If there's one thing I've learned, it's this:

There is no right way to remember someone you love. There is only your way. And your way may change from year to year.

One birthday you may throw a party. The next, you may spend the day in quiet. One year you may want to be surrounded by people. The next, you may need to be alone.

Neither is more loving. Neither is more faithful. Neither is grieving "better." They are simply different expressions of the same love. So when their birthday comes, give yourself permission to let the day unfold however it needs to.

Not how social media says it should look. Not how your family expects it to look. Not even how it looked last year.Just how it needs to look today because love doesn't ask us to perform. It simply asks us to remember.

And however you choose to remember them...

That is enough.

Remember their glow however you can and feel that glow inside of you.