If you’ll pardon me for a moment, I need to fetch something from the second floor.
The theme was vibrant rainbows. Our closest family and friends filled the beautifully decorated room, adorned with colorful paper lanterns and streamers that created a joyful atmosphere. The walls showcased 12 carefully chosen photos capturing a smile from each of my child’s first twelve months. And there was a splendidly crafted cake ready for the occasion. We were all set for a celebration.
Except I found myself upstairs, in the solitude of my closet, overwhelmed with tears.
At this point in our journey, my daughter hadn’t yet developed the ability to sit up. She scored in the 0 percentile on her developmental assessments, barely made any sounds, and seemed disconnected from our attempts to communicate. We were knee-deep in therapy sessions, consulting various specialists, yet no answers were forthcoming.
But this was her first birthday, and downstairs, over 30 guests awaited to join in the celebration. “Every child has some delays. Don’t worry,” they assured me. “My friend’s cousin’s neighbor’s son didn’t speak until he was two, and he ended up going to Harvard. She’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be right down, just trying to find something that doesn’t make me look like a walking rainbow,” I lied, the truth weighing heavy on my heart.
The thought lingered: This day was a reminder of all her challenges. Every article, blog, and conversation revolved around the milestones typically achieved by the first birthday. I often deflected questions or offered polite smiles, masking my fear from the world. But in the confines of my small closet, I curled up, searching for the strength to face the gathering below.
Perhaps it was fear that kept me upstairs. Perhaps it was anger at the path we were on. Perhaps I was afraid to show my vulnerability, fearing judgment from those who loved us.
What finally propelled me to move? Maybe it was the joyful laughter drifting up from the celebration. Splashing cold water on my face, I squeezed into an oversized sweater and some brightly colored socks, seeking distraction, before finally heading downstairs. With a deep breath, I took hold of the cake and found my husband’s encouraging gaze among the crowd, making my way toward my precious daughter.
Fast forward to March 5 once again. I still find myself tearing up every year. Yet, around the time she turned three, those tears transformed from sorrow to joy. A birthday now signifies a celebration of her unique journey. It took me nearly half her life to fully embrace it.
On the evening of her sixth birthday, my husband and I tucked her into bed alongside her beloved collection of dolls. She excitedly shared their names, requesting we tuck each one in as well. I cherished every moment of March 5, delighting in her giggles over purple pancakes, marveling at her joy during a performance that didn’t overwhelm her senses. I watched her enthusiastically engage with a stranger about using the potty and celebrated as she read her name from her birthday card. Every achievement, no matter how small, became a cause for celebration.
Her birthday is no longer a painful reminder of what she cannot do. I have learned to truly honor it. It is a yearly reminder to breathe deeply and embrace the life we are building together, regardless of the obstacles. Now, I just need to improve my baking skills.
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In summary, while I once struggled to enjoy my child’s birthday due to feelings of sadness and fear, I have learned to embrace her unique journey and celebrate her achievements. Each year, I am reminded to cherish the moments we share and the incredible life we are building together.