Teaching Through Grief: A Heavenly Birthday

 

Today, I stood in front of my college students and immediately knew I was a little off.

I knew what day it was. I told myself, You’ve got this. I’ve never liked pretending I’m not human, so before class began, I stood still and told my students the truth: today would have been my mother’s birthday.

One student, trying to be kind, began sharing her own grief—speaking of her father who had passed. Her heart was in the right place, but everything inside me started twisting. She didn’t know my father had also transitioned. I tightened my stomach, bracing myself, fighting the tears that were screaming to pour out.

Just in time, someone from the library walked in to lead a workshop. I stepped out of the classroom, called my best friend, and told her I was trying to ground myself. What I realized in that moment was that I wasn’t grounding—I was suppressing. And that never works.

She listened. I breathed. I let the ache speak. Somehow, I gathered enough courage to walk back into the room.

Then came my next class. This group was different—questions from every angle, energy pulling at me in all directions. Once again, I paused and told them the truth: Today is different for me. If I seem a little strange, it’s because today would have been my mother’s birthday.

The room softened. My students paused. They gathered themselves. They were patient. They listened.

Thankfully, I made it through the day. I stood in front of the classroom without crying.

You transitioned in 2018. It’s 2026 now—and it still hurts.

I still dream about you. I still wish you could see me now. I wish I could tell you about the books I’ve published, about standing at the front of my own classroom, about teaching English the way you once did—intentionally, passionately, with care for every word. I tell my students about you often. About your brilliance. About how you shaped minds. About how you gave me the gift of writing before I even knew what it was.

You and Dad live in my lectures, in my stories, in the way I hold space for students learning how to find their voices. My students know you—not because you are gone, but because you are carried forward.

Today was heavy. As I settle into bed, thoughts of you rush in like waves—memories, laughter, lessons, your voice lingering between the lines of everything I write.

So I pause here to say this: I love you.

I wish I could call you. I wish I could tell you this story and that one. I wish I could hear your response. And while I can’t speak to you the way I once did, I know you are here—woven into my breath, my sentences, my classrooms, my courage.

You live on in every word I teach,

every page I publish,

every student who learns to love language because I did first—through you.

As I close this day, I simply want to acknowledge you.

I love you, Mother.

May you rest in power.

Happy heavenly birthday. 💜

#TeachingThroughGrief

#HeavenlyBirthday

#LegacyOfWords

#GriefAndGrace

Art by Khafre Linwood