The Birthday Wave: What Love Still Remembers

There are certain days you expect to be hard.
Anniversaries. Holidays. The date everything changed.
Those days almost come with a warning label.

But then there are the days you don’t expect… the ones that catch you quietly, softly, and somehow more deeply than you imagined.

For me, that day has always been my birthday.

And I’ll be honest for a long time, I didn’t understand why.

At first I tried to brush it off, telling myself I was being dramatic or overly emotional. It’s your birthday, Claudette. Why are you sad? This isn’t about grief.
But grief doesn’t always follow logic.
And love… love remembers things in its own way.

The First Year: Everything Came at Once

The first year was a blur.

My birthday arrived six months after losing the man who had been my person for 27 years.
We were married for 26 of them, and every one of those years he made sure my birthday was special. Truly special. Not extravagant… just full of intention.
The kind of love that says, I see you. I choose you. Today is your day.

But that year, there was even more.

My son’s birthday fell on the same weekend as the passing just days apart and that made the whole season feel even heavier.
Everything was tangled into one emotional knot:
Loss. Love. Memory. Milestones that didn’t feel like milestones anymore.

And yet, the strangest thing was this:
Even as the years passed, even as healing grew its quiet roots inside me, even as life began to take shape again… the birthday wave stayed.

Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just that subtle hollow feeling the sense that something once beautiful wasn’t there anymore.

The Hollow Is Not Selfish It’s the Imprint of Being Loved Well

For a long time, I told myself the hollow was selfish.

Why should I feel sad on my birthday?
Why should this day meant to celebrate my own life feel heavy?

But eventually I understood something that changed everything:

The hollow wasn’t sadness.
It was the imprint of being loved well.

When someone spends decades making your birthday special…
your body remembers.
Your heart remembers.

And that memory doesn’t disappear just because life changes.
It simply has nowhere outside to go.

That’s when the truth finally clicked for me long before I ever put it into words:

You don’t stop loving someone.
You just learn to carry that love in a new way.

Every time I’ve shared those words, someone’s eyes soften.
Someone nods slowly.
Someone whispers, “Yes… that’s exactly it.”

Because grief isn’t the absence of love.
It’s the echo of it the part that stays.

Sixteen Birthdays Without Him… and What I Know Now

This year marks sixteen birthdays without him.

Sixteen times I’ve woken up and felt that quiet shift in the air
not enough to break me, but enough to pause me.

Sixteen times I’ve remembered how he made me feel on that day:
Seen. Loved. Celebrated.

Not because of gifts or grand gestures…
but because he made sure I knew my life mattered.

No one can replace that.
Not my daughter.
Not my grandson.
Not the people who came into my life later for a season.

Their love is real, and I cherish it
but it is not that love.

So yes… my birthday still brings a wave.
Not every year in the same way, but it’s there.
Soft. Honest. Human.

And I’ve stopped judging it.

Because the wave doesn’t mean I’m stuck.
It means the love was real.

Why These Quiet Anniversaries Matter

People understand grief on big dates.
But the truth is, the body remembers rhythms and rituals long before the mind catches up.

These unexpected anniversaries, the ones not marked on a calendar aren’t setbacks.

They’re signals.

Signals that love leaves a permanent imprint.
Signals that memory has a pulse.
Signals that healing doesn’t erase; it transforms.

Carrying Love Forward Not Backward

There will always be a moment, somewhere on my birthday, where my breath catches just a little.
Where the room feels a bit quieter.
Where I notice his absence in a soft, familiar way.

But I don’t linger in sorrow.

I let it remind me that I was loved deeply.
And that love didn’t disappear it simply changed form.

It lives now in the stories we tell.
In the grandchildren he never met but would’ve adored.
In the strength I’ve built.
In the woman I’ve become.
In the life I’m creating with intention and hope.

That, to me, is the real essence of wellness after loss:

Not leaving love behind…
but learning to carry it differently.
Gently. Honestly.
In a way that lets you rise again.

A Gentle Question for You

If you’ve ever walked through this kind of loss…

Is there a date not a holiday, not an anniversary, just an ordinary day that brings back a quiet wave for you?

You’re welcome to share if it feels right.
Or simply hold it close and know this:

You’re not alone in the waves.
And your heart is remembering because it loved.

If You’re in a Season of Rebuilding…

If this chapter of your story finds you learning how to carry love in a new way
or simply trying to find your footing again you may find comfort in another piece I wrote:

👉 Permission to Dream Again
https://claudetteeames.com/post/widow-to-wellness-permission-to-dream-again

Sometimes one story leads right into another…
and wherever you are on your journey, you’re welcome here.