When you lose a child, birthdays and death-days are normally the two hardest points in the year to get through. The day your child came into this life, and the day she left. Whether your child had three minutes of living or 64 years, you, the parent, bear the loss of her throughout your life, feeling the wrongness of outliving your offspring.

Tuesday was Jessica’s birthday. She would have been 27, and I can’t help but wonder about the “Jess” she would have morphed into in the year and a half since she died. Jessie inherited from me the tendency toward change. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been working at the same place for 15 years, and I’ve always been in long-term relationships. But internally, spiritually, I have always allowed myself the space to grow and evolve into other versions of me. I think my core has remained the same, but the external attributes—beliefs, goals, the way I “move” in the world—have all continually transformed into new, and hopefully improved, manifestations of Bernie. I’m certainly not the person I was at 19—a very conservative born-again Christian, depressed, fearful, with very low self-esteem. I outgrew that person and, fortunately, embraced other ways of being that provided me more freedom. And yet I know so many people who have remained basically the same as they were way back when. No problem with version-control for them! I really can’t imagine a life without growth and change. I keep what works and embrace new ideas and ways of being if I believe they will benefit me.

Jess was like me in this way. She was always trying on new ideas and roles. She was, in fact, a bit of a chameleon. She could choose who to be, applying different aspects of her many selves, in order to adapt comfortably to most situations. So who would she have been now? I’ll never know, and this hurts me deeply, recognizing that her infinite potential slammed against a solid wall the moment she died.

But while Jessie no longer has the ability to grow and change, I do. It’s interesting for me to stand back emotionally and look at how I’ve changed during the year. I have more peace this year. I cry less often. I have longer periods of grace during which I can smile, behave normally, maybe even experience enjoyment and laughter. I can accept that the future holds possibilities even though at this point I have no idea what those might be and no belief that I can ever be a truly happy person. When people ask me how I am, I have actually answered, “Good!” a few times. These are huge gains!

So I realize that while I can never bring my daughter back, that my old life was destroyed, that who I was I’ll never again be, I can accept that with time I will grow even more accustomed to this new life with its loss. In a much smaller way, imagine having badly broken your leg in your youth. Perhaps being a very physical person, an athlete, defined who you were, and so you suffered more than just the physical leg breakage. Some days, the bone aches so much you can barely stand, and you have to take medication to help you bear the pain. You know that you need to keep moving, so your leg won’t stiffen from disuse. Then on other days, you get up, feel the twinge of pain, but go through your day able to accomplish your tasks with minimal discomfort, although you unknowingly favor your whole leg and tend to walk with a bit of a limp.

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The scarred bone will always be there, the compensation for the pain always a necessity. You will never be the star athlete you were. Others who haven’t experienced such a loss suggest you take up another sport. Will the pain lessen in time? Or will you spend your life having to compensate for the breakage you experienced at 17? Some people live their whole lives looking back at the glory years before the breakage. Some use the experience of loss to help others in similar situations. Some use the pain to push them to living their greatest potential in life. And some just sit down and wallow in beer and pills.

It’s easy to feel “Poor me” no matter what the loss. Poor Jess. She made an unknowing choice that cost her everything. Poor us, her family, whose lives have been irrevocably derailed by her death. Poor world, which will never benefit from the presence and energy of my incredible daughter. But here we all are, and while we might not be able to embrace change, we can still choose to remain open to the possibility of it and grateful for the changes that help us to continue on our paths, scars and all.