Every year around my birthday, which falls toward the end of the month, I get a little weepy. I imagine it’s for many reasons—and no, not the obvious “Oh no! I’m getting older.” Age doesn’t bother me. If anything, I see getting older as a rite of passage. I’m another year wiser, and like aged wine—I’m finer.
But this past March, the weepiness snuck up on me, and before I knew it, I was crying in my closet.
Before you think I’m a weirdo for hiding in my closet to cry, let me be clear: I HAVE KIDS. There’s virtually nowhere I can go without being found. But my rather thin and slick closet was the perfect place to hide my tears and gasp for air as I wept.
Since my brother passed in August of 2020, I’ve felt a deep sadness around my birthday. You see, it’s not just my birthday—it’s his too. We weren’t twins, but we were born just two years and one day apart. My birthday comes first, and his follows the very next day. It became a tradition in our family—like Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Both dates were highly anticipated, partly because everyone had to shop for two. It meant double the cake, double the parties, and double the presents.
Except… my brother and I were equally unimpressed with each other’s gifts.
Let me put it this way: when we were teenagers and obsessed with music, we’d hit the record store every chance we got. He’d be in the alternative music section thumbing through bands like Nirvana and Meat Loaf, while I was in the pop section swooning over Madonna, Janet Jackson, and Mariah Carey.
Naturally, I miss my brother most around our birthdays. I accepted, from the moment he left us, that for the first time in my life, I was alone at birthday time. I miss him. I miss celebrating his birthday after mine. But most of all, I miss growing old with him. It’s a sadness I honestly hope never fades. The older I get, the more I want to remember him. I hope I miss him more each year.
But the tears that came that morning in my closet weren’t from missing him.
As I caught my breath and asked myself where this wave of emotion was coming from, I searched my heart. Then it hit me—like a million bricks falling from the sky.
I was thinking of the first person I ever lost.
My grandma.
The sobs returned, harder this time. I doubled over in what felt like a deep ache in my chest. I missed my dear grandma.
It felt random and completely threw me off. I had been mourning my brother for nearly five years—so why now? Why her? Can you still miss someone after so long?
On the morning of Monday, May 16, 1994, my grandmother, resting in a bed just downstairs from us, passed away. I woke up to my mom gently telling me she was gone. I could hear my brother sobbing in the room just feet away. Our family was forever changed.
After a long battle with stomach cancer, my sweet, loving Granny made her transition. I was only 11 years old.
My family felt fractured without her.
She wasn’t the kind of grandparent who only visited on weekends or holidays—Granny lived with us. She was there every day, every night. She made dinner. She greeted us after school. She drove us to McDonald’s for special outings. A devout Catholic, she taught us to pray. But what I’ll always remember is her singing to us.
Now at 42, many memories have faded with time. But her singing—and the smell of her cooking—are etched in my heart.
So why now, after so many years, am I crying in my closet over her?
It seemed almost laughable to admit to anyone. I imagined the conversation with a friend:
“Hey, so this morning I had a grieving attack.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry—about your brother?”
“No, actually… about my grandma.”
“Wait… didn’t she pass, like, 30 years ago?”
“Hello?… Hello? Did I lose you?”
It felt like anyone I told would think I was severely depressed or just plain nuts.
But one of the many things I’ve learned about grief—especially my own—is that you can’t judge yourself. We all have our own journey.
The losses of my grandmother and my brother are forever linked in my soul. Both gone too soon. Both passed on a Monday. Both left a hole in our family.
That must be it, I thought. I’m feeling the absence of my brother on our birthdays, and it’s triggering a need for the security I once knew.
Maybe the last time I truly felt safe and whole as a family… was when my grandmother was still here.
I guess it doesn’t matter which one I’m crying for—on my birthday or my brother’s. All I know is that I miss them both deeply.
And while that sense of security may be 31 years old today, it’s never far from me.
Deep inside my heart—beneath all the stories, the photos, the good and the bad—there’s still a little kid. And he’s singing.
Singing to remember who they were.
Sad that they’re gone.
But eternally grateful to have called them mine.
