My 40th birthday celebration had been in the works for months. The plan was as follows: On Friday, my husband was throwing a party for me in the private room of a hillside restaurant with gorgeous views of Los Angeles. Our closest friends and family would be there. Philip had hired a D.J., rented a photo booth, ordered a three-tiered chocolate cake and picked out an eclectic menu of my favorite dishes.
Then, from Saturday through Monday, I’d take a road trip to Santa Barbara with three of my closest friends.
But life doesn’t happen in a vacuum where we can focus on just one plotline: The days leading up to my birthday were anything but celebratory.
The Tuesday before my birthday, our family situation reached the point where I called the police on my 15-year-old son Luka. He had been struggling with clinical depression and suicidal ideation, and had been self-medicating with substances for the last few years. The officers took him to the emergency room where, on Wednesday, I saw him before he was transferred to a psychiatric hospital. On Thursday, I was allowed to visit him there.
I’d been excited about turning 40. I love birthdays. When Luka turned 6 months, I decided we should celebrate half birthdays. I baked him half a cake and sang half of the “Happy Birthday” song (every other syllable, because complicating things is one of my gifts).
I kept up the tradition when my daughter Matea was born almost two years later. And after I met and married Philip, and we welcomed our son Ari, Matea and Luka took pride in teaching him our half-birthday song.
But now I was lost at sea with no energy to paddle and no land in sight. I told Philip to call everything off — the party, my girls’ trip.
“We can do whatever you want,” he said. “But I don’t think you should cancel.”
“This feels wrong,” I said. I couldn’t imagine turning my gaze away from Luka.
“Luka is safer than he’s been in months,” Philip said. “He’s with people who are trained to help him. He can’t run away. He can’t hurt himself.”
“And you deserve a break,” he added.
Philip gently convinced me to go through with the entire weekend. But at the party, surrounded by love, I could barely touch my food. I was trying to keep it together, especially for Ari and Matea, who clearly wanted the celebration to be special. Ari had worn his favorite superhero cape, and Matea had bravely decided to give a toast in my honor. Still, I kept wishing Luka were with us. He was supposed to be there too, right next to me.
All of our guests knew Luka had been struggling, and some even knew why he wasn’t present. Still, I felt a responsibility to make sure the party was fun. I felt pressure to reassure everyone that we were fine, so no one felt bad for my son or our family.
I should be researching the best ways to help Luka, I thought while forcing smiles. I should be reading a book on mental health. I should be compiling questions for the doctors and the therapists. I should be a better mother.
Eventually, a friend who could probably see that I was only half there, pulled me onto the dance floor, and I completely let loose. I danced until I had blisters on my feet and sweat dripping down my back. It was as if my body was trying to release the emotions it had collected over the past few years. And it felt good. Really good. Then, right after it felt good, it felt really bad.
Everyone was dancing. Their joy was a reminder that our family was surrounded by people who saw us as more than the heartache of the last few months. Still, my love and worry interrupted the moment: What kind of mom dances while her son is in a hospital?
I left for my road trip the following morning. Luka’s hospital was between our house and Santa Barbara. So each day we were away, I planned to drive there. I let my friends know that I’d be gone for three hours: One hour to drive there, one hour with him (the strict time limit imposed by the hospital), one hour to drive back.
But on our first day my friend Jo beat me to the driver’s seat; my friends Cat and Amy hopped in the back. Instead of lounging by the pool, shopping or exploring Santa Barbara, they drove me to the hospital, dropped me off, and then waited for me while I was with my son.
After each visit, I returned to that car and fell apart, releasing the tears I held back while visiting Luka. I cried and worried and vented and hoped. They listened. They encouraged me. And then, they gently guided me back to laughter and joy.
***
Ten days later, Luka was transferred to a residential treatment center, a move that brought a glimmer of hope and demanded another layer of resolve.
After his intake appointment, I found myself driving straight to my friend Zach’s apartment. I didn’t plan this detour, but Zach was like a brother to me, and our friendship always brought me comfort.
Decompressing with him after visits became a ritual: We’d eat Thai food followed by snacks from the produce drawer in his fridge (which had zero produce in it because it was filled with candy).
Over cold Andes mints and Kit Kats, we’d chat about our week. Sometimes I didn’t want to talk about Luka. Other times I’d unload completely. And on one visit, I admitted that I still felt guilty for celebrating my birthday while Luka was hospitalized.
Zach paused to look at me. “Don’t feel bad,” he said. “You did him a favor.”
“You gave him one less thing to carry,” he said.
With a deep breath, Zach explained that back in high school, when he was struggling with depression, he was awful to his mother. Almost two decades had passed, and their relationship was strong, but the pain he felt was still sharp.
“If she’d canceled her birthday,” he said, still holding my gaze, “I’d have even more to still feel guilty about.”
I sat in silence imaging Luka — not as my baby but as a man looking back. How would he reflect on this time in his life? How did I want to contribute to his memories? Did I want to give him more pain or regret to carry?
Somewhere along the way, I’d learned that if my loved ones were suffering, I, too, needed to suffer. Once Luka was happy, then I’d be happy. Once Luka was healthy, then I could be healthy. Once Luka was able to live his life fully, then I would fully live mine.
But what if my child was never completely healthy? That was a lot of pressure to put on a person.
Life is messy. It keeps moving forward. It doesn’t pause because my son is depressed. His struggles are a big, vital part of the picture. But they are not my entire story. I am allowed more than one emotion at a time. Pain and joy can coexist.
So much has happened to our family in the five years since that milestone birthday. Luka has charted his own path toward healing: He graduated from high school, got his license and a car he bought with money from the job he pursued, interviewed for and landed. He has an amazing girlfriend, and even on his hard days he savors every minute of joy. Matea, too, has graduated, and Ari is becoming a young man. Phillip and I finally feel like we can take more time to enjoy our marriage.
Our family life feels a bit more balanced; Luka is no longer the main character of the most rapidly evolving plotline: We’ve all got room to shine.
Recently, I asked Luka what he thought of my decision to host a birthday party while he was hospitalized. Despite wanting to seem cool, I braced myself for his reaction, whatever it might be. Luka just smiled and told me I deserved it.
He was right.
Kristina Kuzmič is a speaker known for her insights on parenting and family. This essay is adapted from her book “I Can Fix This: And Other Lies I Told Myself While Parenting My Struggling Child” (Penguin Life).
