This week I will turn 49 on the 10th anniversary of the Sandy Hook school shooting, a grim milestone to which I’ve been mentally counting down since December 15 of last year. I do not aspire for it to be a “happy birthday,” and I am rather ambivalent about even acknowledging the personal milestone in public, lest I subject myself to wishes to that effect or, worse, shift attention to myself beyond the minimum extent necessary to share these thoughts and experiences that might have some relevance to others. I choose to remember this tragedy, on this and all other days, and below I’ll reflect a bit on what that looks like in practice.

I’ve written a lot (and surely will write more) about this massacre, but in essence, my dear friends’ daughter was among the children murdered, and while I got off comparatively easy as someone not in the inner-inner circle (Ana Grace wasn’t MY child, after all), losing her and seeing my friends suffer instantly changed my life. Some of this was inevitable; considering how how many people were indelibly scarred by the tragedy even if far removed from the actual people who lost loved ones, it stands to reason logically that this would be so for someone closer to that epicenter. Some of it was intentional – that first weekend, I promised myself that I would never let this fade to the outer reaches of my consciousness, such that I might, for example, lose perspective on what represents tragedy (versus annoyance, inconvenience, etc.). Mostly that remembering has been a personal, introspective thing, not directly visible to the outside world, but sometimes the inside comes outside, such as it were, and the confluence with my birthday just happens to be a particularly conspicuous example of this.

The first couple years after the tragedy (particularly before I removed my birth date from my social media profile) I got the typical (and previously-nourishing) spate of “happy birthday” wishes. Each one of them hurt. My better self fully recognized the good intentions of those putting forth those wishes, whether out of habit, out of unawareness of why it might even be complicated, or really for any reason – after all, kindness is kindness, right? I corralled that sense of perspective, and I gave the most genuine “thank you” I could muster. I even tried to take their suggestion (whether intended literally or not) and become, well, happy. I really tried. I certainly didn’t want to drive well-meaning people away, to give negative reinforcement for kind words, or cause anyone to feel badly for expressing warm sentiments. On top of that, on a purely selfish level, I had always enjoyed that ritual of a day each year when I’m celebrated in that way and wasn’t eager to forfeit that enjoyment and nourishment permanently.

But it wasn’t nourishing anymore. I remember my 40th birthday and my 41st – not necessarily with much year-to-year specificity, but those first few post-tragedy years in general. Most specifically, I remember the leaden sighs I labored through whenever reading a “happy birthday” message from a casual acquaintance. I would try to put a positive spin on it internally, but it just hurt. Above all (and yes, I really do know that this was nobody’s intention) it felt like a command. It felt like I was being implored to stop sulking and bumming myself and others out and just have a happy day. And I still vividly remember the gut-churn each time I forced another deep breath and did the only thing I could: respond graciously because there was no socially appropriate way to be honest and it was just too draining to find ways to achieve both.

At a certain point I started to ask myself if I was stubbornly resisting healing. The answer, I’ve concluded, is yes and no. No in the sense that I don’t consider the suffering to be gratuitous. I actively seek inner peace and healing and joy and meaning-making in my life. And it’s not as if I spend my birthdays poking myself with thumbtacks, rubbing onions in my eyes, and listening on repeat to the worst hair metal songs I can find.

But the truth is that there is some level on which I am choosing to remember. Honestly, I am not sure what the alternative would look like. I don’t use intoxicants as numbing agents, I have a limited appetite for TV and such, and I don’t have any other techniques at the ready for ignoring what’s going on in my heart on any lasting level or without doing further damage. So maybe it’s not really a choice, as any attempts to act on my commitment to mindfulness just make me more acutely aware of the inner turmoil. Even so, I feel compelled to own the choice to remember, and doing so brings with it the inevitability of some degree of pain as a constant, with a crescendo thereof leading up to December 14 each year.

As such, the main added difficulty of my birthday landing on this horrific anniversary isn’t that I’ve been “robbed” of an unambivalently celebratory day. It’s that our society does such a lousy job with grief that I can’t be completely honest about mine without making people uncomfortable. I can’t claim to have a nuanced awareness of the intentions or societal costs/benefits surrounding other “remembering” campaigns (whether it be the Alamo or never forgetting 9/11 or what have you) but I find myself reflecting on how hard it is to be in a place of remembrance when others at a greater remove would prefer not to be confronted with that discomfort.

But sometimes uncomfortable is necessary, and I guess I’ve decided this is one of those times. The truth is that when that date rolls around, I don’t WANT to have a “happy” birthday any more than I want to eat stolen bald eagle jerky for lunch – each would demand a multifaceted turning away from how I try to live. I can certainly have moments of tranquility or fellowship or even pleasure, and gratitude for my life, my loved ones, and even the gift of being a person who can endure this sort of grief, or at least has managed to do so thus far. But happy? No thank you.

It moves me profoundly that I have people in my life who find some way of acknowledging their gratitude for my birth on December 14 while also acknowledging and accepting the heavy-heartedness of the occasion. I recognize that takes effort and while I truly don’t bear ill will towards any individual who for whatever reason doesn’t/can’t make that awkward pivot, this extra layer of thoughtfulness has liberated me to more fully own the real emotions embedded in this part of the calendar. More than anything, I think, it’s those particular gestures of support that have emboldened me to pen and share this, which I hope can be of some help to someone out there looking for solidarity or for further permission to own their grief.

This week I will turn 49 on the 10th anniversary of the Sandy Hook school shooting, a grim milestone to which I’ve been mentally counting down since December 15 of last year. I do not aspire for it to be a “happy birthday,” and I am rather ambivalent about even acknowledging the personal milestone in public, lest I subject myself to wishes to that effect or, worse, shift attention to me beyond the minimum extent necessary to share these thoughts and experiences that might have some relevance to others. I choose to remember this tragedy, on this and all other days, and below I’ll reflect a bit on what that looks like in practice.

I’ve written a lot (and surely will write more) about this massacre, but in essence, my dear friends’ daughter was among the children murdered, and while I got off comparatively easy as someone not in the inner-inner circle (Ana Grace wasn’t MY child, after all), losing her and seeing my friends suffer instantly changed my life. Some of this was inevitable; considering how how many people were indelibly scarred by the tragedy even if far removed from the actual people who lost loved ones, it stands to reason logically that this would be so for someone closer to that epicenter. Some of it was intentional – that first weekend, I promised myself that I would never let this fade to the outer reaches of my consciousness, such that I might lose perspective on what represents tragedy (versus annoyance, inconvenience, etc.). Mostly that remembering has been a personal, introspective thing, not directly visible to the outside world, but sometimes the inside comes outside, such as it were, and the confluence with my birthday just happens to be a particularly conspicuous example of this.

The first couple years after the tragedy (particularly before I removed my birth date from my social media profile) I got the typical (and previously-nourishing) spate of “happy birthday” wishes. Each one of them hurt. My better self fully recognized the good intentions of those putting forth those wishes, whether out of habit, out of unawareness of why it might even be complicated, or really for any reason – after all, kindness is kindness, right? I corralled that sense of perspective, and I gave the most genuine “thank you” I could muster. I even tried to take their suggestion (whether intended literally or not) and become, well, happy. I really tried. I certainly didn’t want to drive well-meaning people away, to give negative reinforcement for kind words, or cause anyone to feel badly for expressing warm sentiments. On top of that, on a purely selfish level, I had always enjoyed that ritual of a day each year when I’m celebrated in that way and wasn’t eager to forfeit that enjoyment and nourishment permanently.

But it wasn’t nourishing anymore. I remember my 40th birthday and my 41st – not necessarily with much year-to-year specificity, but those first few post-tragedy years in general. Most specifically, I remember the leaden sighs I labored through whenever reading a “happy birthday” message from a casual acquaintance. I would try to put a positive spin on it internally, but it just hurt. Above all (and yes, I really do know that this was nobody’s intention) it felt like a command. It felt like I was being implored to stop sulking and bumming myself and others out and just have a happy day. And I still vividly remember the gut-churn each time I forced another deep breath and did the only thing I could: respond graciously because there was no socially appropriate way to be honest and it was just too draining to find ways to achieve both.

At a certain point I started to ask myself if I was stubbornly resisting healing. The answer, I’ve concluded, is yes and no. No in the sense that I don’t consider the suffering to be gratuitous. I actively seek inner peace and healing and joy and meaning-making in my life. And it’s not as if I spend my birthdays poking myself with thumbtacks, rubbing onions in my eyes, and listening on repeat to the worst hair metal songs I can find.

But the truth is that there is some level on which I am choosing to remember. Honestly, I am not sure what the alternative would look like. I don’t use intoxicants as numbing agents, I have a limited appetite for TV and such, and I don’t have any other techniques at the ready for ignoring what’s going on in my heart on any lasting level or without doing further damage. So maybe it’s not really a choice, as any attempts to act on my commitment to mindfulness just make me more acutely aware of the inner turmoil. Even so, I feel compelled to own the choice to remember, and doing so brings with it the inevitability of some degree of pain as a constant, with a crescendo thereof leading up to December 14 each year.

As such, the main added difficulty of my birthday landing on this horrific anniversary isn’t that I’ve been “robbed” of an unambivalently celebratory day. It’s that our society does such a lousy job with grief that I can’t be completely honest about mine without making people uncomfortable. I can’t claim to have a nuanced awareness of the intentions or societal costs/benefits surrounding other “remembering” campaigns (whether it be the Alamo or never forgetting 9/11 or what have you) but I find myself reflecting on how hard it is to be in a place of remembrance when others at a greater remove would prefer not to be confronted with that discomfort.

But sometimes uncomfortable is necessary, and I guess I’ve decided this is one of those times. The truth is that when that date rolls around, I don’t WANT to have a “happy” birthday any more than I want to eat stolen bald eagle jerky for lunch – each would demand a multifaceted turning away from how I try to live. I can certainly have moments of tranquility or fellowship or even pleasure, and gratitude for my life, my loved ones, and even the gift of being a person who can endure this sort of grief, or at least has managed to do so thus far.

It moves me profoundly that I have people in my life who find some way of acknowledging their gratitude for my birth on December 14 while also acknowledging and accepting the heavy-heartedness of the occasion. I recognize that takes effort and while I truly don’t bear ill will towards any individual who for whatever reason doesn’t/can’t make that awkward pivot, this extra layer of thoughtfulness has liberated me to more fully own the real emotions embedded in this part of the calendar. More than anything, I think, it’s those particular gestures of support that have emboldened me to pen and share this, which I hope can be of some help to someone out there looking for solidarity or for further permission to own their grief.