Soon it will be the anniversary of my daughter’s death.

Over the years, I have struggled with how to deal with this particular day. It isn’t like her birthday. Her birthday is painful now, but represents a wonderful day in my life. Instead, the anniversary of her death represents the worst day of my life.

A day full of images, sounds, smells, and chaos that I’d rather erase altogether. It represents a day filled with horror. There is no other word I can use to adequately describe it. It may not have been a mass shooting or terrorist act that got 24-hour media attention, but it shattered my heart into a million pieces and part of me died that day too.

The year leading to the first anniversary of her death was agonizing.

Everything that first year was new, uncharted territory. Each “first” – Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, family birthdays, vacation – was like swallowing broken glass. How could we celebrate when she wasn’t here to celebrate it with us? The fact that her birthday is 29 days before the anniversary of her death compounded the stress. These weren’t just societal holidays to celebrate with the rest of the world. They were specifically representative of her.

Coming up on the first anniversary of her death, I would lay awake in the middle of the night. Anxiety overwhelmed me as I wondered how I could possibly get through that day without completely losing it? I decided I would hide from the world that day.

I stayed home like a hermit, and the day came and went. But it was a day full of sadness. A day where I couldn’t hold back the images of that horrible day from invading my thoughts. A day when I replayed the “what if” and “why” questions I had let go of months before.

For the second anniversary of her death, I was determined not to hide in sadness. Instead, I wanted to somehow transform the day into a positive one.

I decided it would become a day of gratitude for the people who tried to help on the day she died. I wrote thank you cards to those who were involved in that day and the aftermath. One of the stops was the fire station down the street that first responded to the 911 call. Taking two of my sons with me, we walked up to the fire house door and knocked.

Three firemen came to the door and I explained why I was there. Two of them said they had come to our house and worked on my daughter. With tears in my eyes, I thanked them for their efforts even though she hadn’t made it.

With tears in their own eyes, they said they never forget the times that little kids don’t make it. While I’m glad I had the opportunity to talk to them in person, it didn’t provide me with the peace I was hoping for.

The third anniversary of her death, I tried to treat the day like it was just any other typical day.

That attempt simply ended in outbursts of anger resulting from repressing my emotions. The fact is, it isn’t just any other day to me. And I can’t pretend otherwise.

I don’t think there is a right or wrong way to approach the anniversary of our loved one’s death.

What “works” for me may not “work” for anyone else. I’m sure my thoughts, anxieties, expectations, etc. will evolve over time. These days, I just take it as it comes and know that it will be a sad day no matter what I do.  I’ll just have to be ok with that.

I don’t really have any other choice.