“Your birthday is no longer about cake and candles—it is about memory and gratitude.” —UNKNOWN

Today is your birthday, but I received the gift. In fact, I received three!. But I should start at the beginning.

Even as adults, my mom still bought us gifts. More often than not, I was shopping with her when she picked them out. That probably sounds funny, but as a child, I was her number one elf at Christmas. I always knew what my siblings were getting because I helped choose the gifts—and I wrapped them, too.

Many Christmases ago, I unwrapped a new Kansas Jayhawk T-shirt. As an adult, I didn’t really expect anything. There were grandchildren to think about, and she was working a busy full-time job. Yet somehow, she always thought of us.

Later that day, in a quiet moment, she told me the story behind the shirt. She hadn’t known what to buy because, in her words, I already had everything I needed or wanted. She knew how much I loved my alma mater, but she couldn’t find a KU shirt that I didn’t already own or one she thought I’d actually like.

So she had one made.

It’s red—my favorite color—with a small KU logo. That’s it. Nothing flashy. Nothing trendy. Just a simple shirt designed with me in mind.

For me, it was everything.

Once again, I felt seen and known. She paid attention to the little things. She knew what would make me smile before I even knew I wanted it. That’s who my mom was. Loving in ways both big and small. And today, that gift came full circle.

I hadn’t worn that shirt in a long time, but this morning I pulled it out of my dresser without thinking much about it. Looking back, it feels like one of those meaningful coincidences.

First, my son asked where I got it.

Later that afternoon, my daughter asked if it was a new shirt.

Then my husband smiled and asked, “When did you get that?”

Each question became an unexpected gift.

Three times today, I got to tell the story of my mom. Three times, I got to remember her generosity, her thoughtfulness, and the way she made each of us feel uniquely loved. Three times, I got to say her name and smile because of her.

So today we whisper a happy birthday into the sky. It’s your day, Mom, and we remember the gift you were to all of us.

Sometimes love looks like a custom-made red T-shirt. Sometimes it looks like the stories we keep telling long after someone is gone.

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Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.

Say their name. Honor their story. It’s not a reminder that they died. It’s a reminder that they lived.

David Kessler

I recently came across a video by a content creator explaining a Jewish tradition known as the second death. She described it as the moment when a person’s name is spoken for the last time. I found the idea both hopeful and heartbreaking — hopeful in that we can continue to honor our loved ones by speaking their names, and heartbreaking because the act itself reminds us that one day, our voices will also fade. In grief, it often feels like we have so little control. But here is something tangible — something we can do. We can keep their memory alive through words and stories.

This past week, I spoke to a group about the gift of storytelling. Storytelling allows us to share, connect, learn, empower — and, ultimately, to create legacy. I truly believe every one of us has a story worth telling. I closed my presentation by reminding the group that never before have we had so many tools to share those stories. Technology gives us endless ways to write, record, film, and connect. There’s an audience waiting to listen — people who will see themselves reflected in what we share. The only question is: who will you tell?

Since then, I’ve found myself thinking about the quiet ways my mom passed her own wisdom on to me. I wonder if she realized that’s what she was doing. When she and my dad became empty nesters, she used to talk about how cooking had changed for her. I’m in that phase now, and I finally understand. The refrigerator in my home is often bare. Gone are the days of weekly grocery trips with detailed menus planned out around school and extracurricular activities. Now, I consider my work schedule, energy level, and whether I even feel like cooking. I plan meals for when the kids are visiting and for whatever I happen to crave. That’s it.

She knew this before I did. And because she told me, I recognize it now — not as failure or disinterest, but as a natural rhythm of this new season of life. It’s a small but comforting reminder that she’s still teaching me, even years after her passing.

I catch myself saying it often: I remember my mom telling me about these days. And here they are. She’s not here, but I am guided by her stories.

Thanks, Mom.

Say their name.

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Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.