As many of you know two years ago on June 20 at 5:37 in the morning, Izzy left us. We got her to the hospital and the heroic team put her on life-support, but the reality everyone faced was that she was already gone. Whatever flicker of life they found to put her on life-support was so tiny it could not be sustained without a dozen machines and a team at the Stanford ICU. When the hopelessness of the situation had to be confronted, and we shut the machines off, it took only seconds.

Last year at this time I felt great pain and I struggled through it to remember the honor that she bestowed on us by leaving such a tremendous sign. To be born on her dad‘s birthday and to pass away on mine. She bookended her life. She knew exactly what she was doing. And to be included like that is a tremendous honor. A gift.

This year I feel that even more strongly. The pain and grief are there of course. But they feel a little more muted. A little more sweet. I think that is what the word sorrow means. It is deep and it hurts but there’s a kind of beauty in it too. I see all these jubilant birthday wishes coming in for me and last year I think I didn’t know how to take them as I struggled to reconcile my birthday with her passing.

But this year I feel much greater sense of peace and understanding of what Isabel wants and feels, and I know she wants me to take this day for myself too. That’s not possible but I can share it with a happier heart. And when that happens, when the grief begins to soften into this kind of sorrow, and you can see more beauty than pain, that is grace. That is her birthday gift to me. ❤

But this year I feel how much greater sense of peace and understanding of what Isabel wants and feels and I know she wants me to take this day for myself too. That’s not possible but I can share it with a happier heart. And when that happens, when the grief begins to soften into this kind of sorrow and you see more beauty than pain, that is grace. That is her birthday gift to me.