A birthday without her

A Birthday Without Her Today, I miss her more than ever. She would have been the first one to wish me—excited, thoughtful, already planning a gift she had probably been thinking about for weeks. She had a way of making birthdays feel intentional, personal, full of warmth. Without her, my heart aches in a way that feels familiar and yet freshly painful. Today, I received a message that caught me off guard. One of the parents from GESS reached out to wish me. I had taught both her boys in kindergarten; they are now sixteen and older. In her message, she mentioned Sana. And suddenly, I was pulled back to a different time. Sana used to come to my classroom during her breaks. The children adored her. She had a way with them that was effortless and genuine. They were drawn to her kindness, her honesty, the way she spoke to them as if they mattered—because to her, they did. There was something special about how she connected with children, something natural and deeply human. I know she would have been so excited to see those boys now, to see how they’ve grown, to look at their pictures and marvel at time passing. She loved moments like that—quiet reminders that relationships endure, that love leaves traces. That message reminded me that Sana lives on in ways I don’t always see. In memories held by others. In classrooms she briefly passed through. In children who felt seen by her, even for a short while. Still, birthdays are different now. They always will be. There is a space that cannot be filled, a joy that feels incomplete. I mark another year, but I do so carrying her absence alongside the love. My birthday will never be the same without her. But today, I also remember this: she mattered. She is remembered. And that, somehow, holds me gently through the ache.