Twenty-Five Years of Sunrises

It's been twenty-five years since the last time I heard her voice, saw her smile, or felt her presence in the room.

The years have thinned the sharp edges of grief, but they have not dulled the shape of her absence. She is still here, woven into my hands when I work, my voice when I teach, my stubbornness when I refuse to give up.

It was my birthday when she passed and I have lived twenty-five more years without her. And yet, she is in every good thing I try to build. She is the quiet counsel in my worst moments. She is the example I measure myself against when I am tempted to cut corners or turn away.

Today would have been her birthday.

Instead of candles, I light my work with her lessons.

Instead of gifts, I offer the life I am still shaping, the one she would have wanted for me.

Loss does not mean the end of love.

It means you carry that love forward, through every project, every conversation, every sunrise.

It becomes the foundation under everything you do.

Happy birthday, Mom. I'm still building. And I know you're still watching.