What Would 11 Look Like?

“A person’s golden or grand birthday, also referred to as their “lucky birthday“, “champagne birthday“, or “star birthday“, occurs when they turn the age of their birth day (e.g., when someone born on the 25th of the month turns 25 or when someone born on the ninth turns nine).”

Tomorrow is Kate’s birthday.

She will be 11 on the 11th of October. It would be her ‘champagne birthday’, or what others refer to as a lucky or star birthday. 

It’s a day filled with the number 1. If you look up the meaning of “1” it is filled with references to strength, leadership, confidence, the divine.

As an angel number, 1 is about new beginnings and fresh starts. It’s an opportunity for loved ones to make change or to encourage change.

I called my friend Julie recently because I have been struggling leading up to Kate’s birthday. She told me the significance of all those number 1s is something to be considerate of and to pay close attention to. That this is a moment in time to think of positive affirmations and to be cautious with my mindset. The intentions I set will be important going forward. 

Kate is such a strong presence in my life. She regularly lets me know she’s here. Signals that might seem subtle or coincidental to others, are clear and strong to me. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she is guiding me to fresh starts and change. I struggle daily with her loss, and I feel I am not ready for this significant birthday and the meaning it brings. She is protecting me and guiding me. 

I think a lot about who Kate would be at 11 were she still with us. Not much would have changed. She’d be bigger, maybe stronger. Her blond hair would likely still be long and fragile. I would still style it in the morning into “ponies”, and buy her endless colourful hair clips.
Her cochlear implants might fit her little head a bit better. She would likely have more words and be able to express herself in different ways. Kate would probably still be enjoying school and any chance she got to swim or be outside. I’m sure she’d love our backyard pool – I’m sure we’d be stressed about her falling into it. But maybe she’d developed some stronger swimming skills.

She would still love pasta. She would still give great hugs, but be too busy to snuggle. 

She likely would not have outgrown sparkly shirts or shoes. She would still love her books, and ‘reading’ to herself.

She’d be taller. She would smell wonderful.

She’d still have an amazing smile and belly laugh. She would captured the spirit of anyone she met.

I wonder if I’d still be carrying her around, and what type of mobility support she’d need? She would no longer fit into a soft backpack on my back – her feet were already touching behind my knee. 

She would be in her bed at night. I would be able to check on her, put my hand to her chest to feel her breathing, her warmth emanating through her PJs. 

 

I miss that so much. I hurts my heart to know she is not there. I feel less safe to not have her breathing softly in the room next to me.

I think of her every day. She is part of every waking moment I have whether conscious or sub-conscious. She is right there. And so close that somedays I feel I can almost reach out and touch her.

We all feel our children are unique. They are.
Kate was something special. I know that to be true. I knew it before, but the full weight of that fact did not resonate until she was gone from this life. 

Her loss created a tear in the universe, in the space-time continuum, that continues to this day. 

Luv you Kate-o. 

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