Tomorrow is my brother’s birthday.

I've Been Thinking…

Tomorrow is my brother’s birthday.
And it always hits me differently than the day he died.

The anniversary of his death—August 28th—comes with that familiar punch in the chest. It’s flashbacks, phone calls, group texts, everyone checking on everyone. We all remember where we were, what we were doing, how we found out. It’s a shared grief we move through together every year.

But his birthday feels… quieter.
He’s not here to celebrate, and somehow that makes the day feel more isolating than the day we lost him.

You only get one day to die.
But you’re supposed to get many birthdays.

Birthdays are meant to stack up. To be marked with good food, dumb jokes, people giving you a hard time about getting older. They’re supposed to be reminders that you’re still here, still loved, still part of the world.

So when someone you love stops having birthdays, it’s strange. It’s heavy in a different way. Because you’re celebrating someone who should still be celebrating with you.

And tomorrow, like every November 14th, I’ll sit with that weird mix of love, sadness, and gratitude. I’ll remember him the best way I know how—by thinking about him, talking about him, and letting the day be whatever it needs to be.