A Birthday Without You, But Never Without Love

I want to smile again, without feeling guilty.
I want to miss you, without coming undone.
I want to celebrate your life,
without my heart breaking.

— J. Raymond, The Kindred Project: Vol. II

Emily should be turning 28 on Sunday, March 23, 2025. Instead, I’ll pay a visit to the cemetery and contemplate what could have been. At 28, I had a career in TV news. I had been married for a year and was already thinking about having my first child. At 28, I had purchased my first home and was preparing to be her mom.

A career, a wedding, children—these experiences have all been robbed from my daughter, thanks to fentanyl.

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I have a young woman, Kayli, in my office who is 28, flourishing in her career and doing well. She was even classmates with Emily in middle school. Two girls from the same background, the same age, and one with such a disastrous fate. I look at Kayli, and I can’t help but think about what could have been for Emily—what should have been.

Kayli attended Emily’s 12th birthday party, along with a huge group of girls. I remember how excited Emily was—how excited they all were—for this celebration. They swam, laughed, and some of them stayed for a sleepover. The energy was electric, the kind only a group of young girls can create when they feel invincible, when the future is a wide-open canvas waiting to be painted with their dreams.

I have a photo from that day, a snapshot of their joy frozen in time. Kayli is there, on the far right. I wish I could see her whole face, but part of it is cut off. Even so, I remember her being there, a part of that moment in Emily’s life. These girls had so many dreams for the future, and Emily had hers mapped out so clearly. She wanted to go to Parsons School of Design in New York City and become a fashion designer. She spent hours sketching clothing designs, perfecting every detail, and that’s when she first learned to sew.

Kayli also pursued her passion. She is a talented artist in her own right—her graphite work is stunning, and she’s amazing at graphic design. Two girls, both creative, both full of potential. One here, flourishing. The other, frozen in time at 21.

When I see Kayli today, I can’t help but think about what could have been for Emily—what should have been.

Yet, at the same time, I truly enjoy being around young people who are about the age that Emily should have been. Their new ideas and enthusiasm make me happy, and they often make me proud—the way Emily’s two best friends growing up, Jenae and Ellen, do when they help with our Emily’s Hope Art Show & Auction. These two young women are also filled with creativity and amazing artists in their own rights. Being around them stirs up a pang of longing in my heart that I know will never be filled, while at the same time, I’m grateful for them and feel connected to them through Emily’s life—a life that should be celebrated, even while my heart breaks in doing so.

I heard you know your heart is healing after a loss when you think of that person and smile before you cry. I smile when I think of Emily and how goofy she could be. Sometimes, she was just downright silly, but she always knew how to make me laugh. She had this way of bringing light into a room, whether through a perfectly timed joke, an exaggerated expression, or just her own infectious energy.

One of my favorite memories is from when she was three years old. It was spring, and we had gone shopping for potted flowers. She stood there, taking in the bursts of color all around her, eyes wide with wonder. Then, she turned to me, tilted her little head, and said with the sweetest sincerity, “Pretty flowers, pretty mommy!” I remember laughing through tears because it was just such a perfect moment—her joy, her innocence, her love wrapped up in those few simple words.

Even now, every spring when the flowers bloom, I think of her. I can still hear her little voice in my mind, and for just a moment, it feels like she’s right there with me.

I wrote a love poem to my daughter within the weeks after she died called An Incomplete Heart:

I am here; She is not
Yet, I must stay and figure out how to put her
away—
When she’s always been right here at the
forefront of my mind
Worry. Worry. Fear.
Worst fear materialized
Somehow I breathe
In and out; in and out
I breathe without her
I was there for her first breath, not her last
My work unfinished—services no longer
required
My heart in pieces on the floor
One piece missing forevermore
Learning to live with an incomplete heart.

—Angela Kennecke

I have found ways to fill the hole in my heart that Emily left behind. It will never be whole again—not in the way it was before—but I’ve learned that love doesn’t disappear with loss. Instead, I’ve found ways to channel that love into something meaningful, something that keeps Emily’s spirit alive.

Everything I do in her name—whether it’s advocacy work, expanding education, or ensuring life-saving tools like naloxone reach the people who need them—is a way of stitching together the jagged edges of my grief. I can’t change what happened to Emily, but I can fight to make sure another mother doesn’t stand where I am, shattered by an unnecessary loss.

The missing piece of my heart will always be there, but I’ve come to understand that even an incomplete heart can still love, still hope and still make a difference.

I don’t believe in moving on from my daughter’s death. How could I? Love like this doesn’t fade with time, and grief is just love that no longer has a place to go. But I do believe in moving with her—carrying her spirit, her kindness, and her dreams forward into the future, whatever it may hold.

Emily may not be here in the way I so desperately wish she were, but she is still here. In the lives she’s touched. In the art she left behind. In every action taken in her name. And as long as I live, I will keep moving with her.

Faith, Hope & Courage,
Angela