Mark Douglas Costner was born on January 17, 1953, in Lynwood, California. He died the following day — January 18, 1953 — just one day old. He was the second child of William Von Costner, an electrician and utilities executive, and Sharon Rae Tedrick Costner, a welfare worker and devoted mother. He was survived by his elder brother Daniel Craig Costner, born in November 1950. And two years later, almost to the hour — on January 18, 1955 — his younger brother Kevin Michael Costner came into the world on the exact same date that Mark had left it.
Mark Douglas Costner never drew a breath long enough to know his parents’ faces. He never heard his mother’s voice reading to him or felt his father’s hand steady on his back. He lived inside a single day in January — and then he was gone. Yet his place in the Costner family story is real, documented, and quietly significant. He is not a footnote. He is the beginning of a family’s understanding of both loss and resilience — the first grief William and Sharon Costner ever had to carry together, and the silent presence that would hover, always gently, over everything that came after.
Quick Facts — Mark Douglas Costner
| Detail | Information |
|---|---|
| Full Name | Mark Douglas Costner |
| Date of Birth | January 17, 1953 |
| Date of Death | January 18, 1953 |
| Age at Passing | One day old |
| Birthplace | Lynwood, Los Angeles County, California, USA |
| Father | William Von Costner (1924–2000) |
| Mother | Sharon Rae Tedrick Costner (1928–1998) |
| Elder Brother | Daniel Craig Costner (born November 1950) |
| Younger Brother | Kevin Michael Costner (born January 18, 1955) |
| Burial | Rose Hills Memorial Park, Whittier, California |
| Funeral Service | January 20, 1953 — officiated by Rev. Lloyd George Gibbs |
| Funeral Home | Robert D. Trager, Lynwood Mortuary |
| Obituary Published | Lynwood Press, January 22, 1953 |
January 1953 — A Lynwood Winter
Lynwood, California in January 1953 was a working-class city in Los Angeles County — a place of modest homes, young families, and the kind of quiet American life that rarely makes headlines.
William and Sharon Costner were a young couple building something from very little. William was an electrician — a practical man, skilled with his hands, someone who understood that the world ran on things working as they should. Sharon was a welfare worker — a woman who spent her professional life looking after people who needed help, who understood grief and difficulty in ways that most people never would.
They already had one son — Daniel Craig, just two years old. And they were awaiting their second.
Mark Douglas arrived on January 17, 1953. The birth was premature — his lungs, his body, everything still too new for the world outside. He survived that first day. And then, on January 18, 1953, he did not survive the second.
The Lynwood Press carried a small notice that Thursday, January 22:
“Mark Douglas — Infant son of Billy V. and Sharon Costner, passed away January 18, 1953 in Lynwood, one day after his birth. Survived by a brother Daniel Craig Costner.”
Nine words of identity. Four lines of obituary. A funeral service on January 20, conducted by Reverend Lloyd George Gibbs. Interment at Rose Hills Memorial Park in Whittier. Robert D. Trager of Lynwood Mortuary in charge of arrangements.
That was the public record of Mark Douglas Costner’s life. Small. Spare. Devastating in its brevity.
What Infant Loss Does to a Family
Before going further into the Costner family’s story, it is worth pausing to acknowledge something that often goes unsaid in these accounts — what the loss of an infant actually does to the people who live through it.
In 1953, infant mortality was not uncommon. Medicine had advanced enormously since the early part of the century, but premature births still carried enormous risk. Parents understood, intellectually, that not every child who arrived early would survive. Society had not yet developed the emotional language or the grief support structures that exist today. Families were expected to absorb the loss quietly and move forward.
That does not mean they did not grieve. It means they grieved largely in silence — without the rituals, the counseling, the acknowledgment that today’s families receive. The loss of a baby was treated, all too often, as something to be endured rather than mourned properly. Parents were told, sometimes within days, to focus on the children they had and look toward the future.
William and Sharon Costner buried their second son on January 20, 1953. They returned home to their two-year-old, Daniel. And they continued.
What they carried with them — quietly, privately, in the way that generation carried everything difficult — is impossible to fully know from the outside. But it shaped them. It had to. Loss always does.
The Date That Connects Two Brothers Across Time
Of all the details in Mark Douglas Costner’s brief story, one stands above the rest in its quiet, almost unbearable poignancy.
Mark Douglas Costner died on January 18, 1953.
Kevin Michael Costner was born on January 18, 1955.
Exactly two years apart. The same date. The same family. One life ending, another beginning — separated by the exact span of two calendar years, sharing a single point on the calendar that became, for the Costner family, simultaneously a date of grief and a date of joy.
There is no indication that this was planned or even noticed immediately. These things happen in families — dates overlap, anniversaries collide, the calendar becomes layered with meaning over time. But the significance of it is undeniable.
Kevin Costner came into the world on the same date his older brother left it. He grew up — perhaps aware of this, perhaps not until later — carrying that connection on his birthday every single year.
It is the kind of thing that, once you know it, changes how you see a person. Kevin Costner’s birthday is not simply January 18. It is also the anniversary of his brother’s death. Every year, without exception, those two things exist together on the same date — the celebration and the absence, the arrival and the departure.
William and Sharon — Parents Who Carried On
William Von Costner was born in Oklahoma in 1924. He was a practical, driven man who relocated his family multiple times throughout Kevin’s childhood in pursuit of work and stability. He had, by Kevin’s later account, high expectations and an occasionally difficult temperament — the kind of father who pushed hard and sometimes pushed too hard. But he was also a man who showed up, who worked, who stayed.
He carried the loss of Mark with him silently, the way men of his generation were taught to carry hard things — inward, unexpressed, folded into the daily business of living.
He went on to appear in several of Kevin’s films in small roles — visible in Tin Cup (1996) and For Love of the Game (1999). Those cameos, small as they were, speak to something: a father who wanted to be part of his son’s world, even briefly, even in the background. A man who stayed connected.
William Von Costner passed away on February 21, 2000, in Los Angeles, California. He was 75 years old.
Sharon Rae Costner was born in Pennsylvania in 1928. She was, by Kevin’s repeated and open account, the emotional center of the family — the warmth that balanced her husband’s harder edges, the consistency that made the constant relocations survivable, the presence that made wherever they landed feel like home.
She was a welfare worker — a profession that requires the kind of daily empathy that most people could not sustain. She brought that same quality home. She loved her children with a fierceness that Kevin has spoken about repeatedly and publicly, with genuine emotion. She followed him to film sets. She sat in lawn chairs on hills in South Dakota to watch him direct. She waved at him from a distance, the way mothers do, because she simply wanted to see him doing what he loved.
Sharon Rae Costner passed away peacefully in 1998. She was 70 years old. Kevin had only two more years with his father after losing her.
Both parents went to their graves having carried the memory of Mark — the son who arrived and left before they could know him — alongside everything else that life gave and took from them.
Daniel — The Brother Who Was There From the Beginning

Daniel Craig Costner was born in November 1950 — the eldest of the Costner children, the one who preceded everyone, including Mark.
At two years old when Mark was born and died, Daniel would have had no conscious memory of those events. But he grew up in a household where that loss was part of the family’s texture — present even when unspoken, shaping the parents who raised him in ways both visible and invisible.
Daniel went on to build a career in oil separation technology — specifically developing systems designed to minimize the environmental impact of oil spills, a field that is as far from Hollywood as it is possible to get. And yet, when Kevin’s production company Tig Productions needed financial management — during the years it was producing films like Dances with Wolves and The Bodyguard — it was Daniel who stepped in.
He left a lucrative executive position to work with his brother. He told Time magazine in 1989 that he was glad he had made the switch. The two brothers, five years apart, remained close in the way that siblings who have weathered family loss often do — with a depth of loyalty that does not require constant expression.
Daniel Craig Costner represents, in many ways, the road not taken — the Costner boy who built a quiet, private, purposeful life outside the spotlight. He is also the only person alive today who shares, with Kevin, the specific experience of being raised by William and Sharon Costner in the aftermath of Mark’s death.
Kevin Costner — Living With the Anniversary
Kevin Costner has not spoken at length publicly about Mark Douglas. The loss predated Kevin’s own birth, and there are limits to how deeply any of us can grieve a sibling we never knew.
But the facts speak quietly for themselves.
Kevin was born on the day Mark died, two years later. He was raised by parents who had survived the kind of loss that leaves a permanent mark on a person’s emotional interior. He grew up in a family that moved constantly — William’s work taking them from city to city, school to school — and in that movement, the siblings who remained became each other’s continuity.
Kevin has spoken publicly about his childhood with a combination of warmth and honest complexity. He has spoken about confidence lost during those years of constant relocation. He has spoken about his father’s difficult expectations. He has spoken about his mother with undisguised love and tenderness.
He has built a career defined by characters who carry loss quietly and keep moving. Dances with Wolves. The Bodyguard. Field of Dreams. Yellowstone. Again and again, Kevin Costner has been drawn to stories about men who are shaped by grief — who carry it without letting it stop them, who find meaning in spite of absence rather than in spite of it.
Whether that is conscious or not, it is a consistent thread. And it begins, perhaps, with a date in January — a birthday that is also an anniversary, a celebration that is also, quietly, a remembrance.
Rose Hills Memorial Park — Where Mark Rests
Mark Douglas Costner was laid to rest at Rose Hills Memorial Park in Whittier, California — one of the largest memorial parks in the United States, a place of rolling hills and carefully tended grounds about twenty miles from where he was born.
He has a place there. A real, physical place. A marker that says he existed, that he was named, that he was the son of William and Sharon, the brother of Daniel, the brother who came before Kevin.
His funeral service was conducted by Reverend Lloyd George Gibbs on January 20, 1953 — two days after he died, three days after he was born. A handful of people gathered to mark the end of a life that had barely begun. His parents. Perhaps a few family members. Reverend Gibbs speaking words of comfort over a loss that no words can adequately address.
And then they went home. And they lived. And eventually Kevin was born. And eventually Daniel and Kevin grew up and became the men they became. And the family continued — as families do, shaped by their losses as much as by their joys, carrying their absent members in the only way that is possible: in memory, in the dates that recur each year, in the quiet spaces between the words.
What Mark Douglas Costner’s Story Means
There is a reason people search for Mark Douglas Costner. It is not because he accomplished anything in the traditional sense. He had no career, no relationships, no public life, no voice. He had one day.
People search for him because they are drawn to the edges of the stories they already know — because Kevin Costner is famous and beloved, and when you love someone’s work, you become curious about everything that shaped them, including the things that happened before they were born.
And what they find, when they search for Mark, is something that feels important to acknowledge honestly:
A baby boy was born in January 1953 in a working-class California city. His parents named him Mark Douglas. He had an older brother named Daniel. He survived one day. He was buried on a January morning in Whittier, California, by parents who had to go home afterward and keep living.
Two years later, on the same date he died, his brother Kevin was born.
That is the whole story. It is also, somehow, more than enough — because it is true, and because the truth of it connects to everything that came after in ways that are quiet, permanent, and worth knowing.
Conclusion
Mark Douglas Costner lived for one day in January 1953. He never knew his name. He never knew his parents’ faces. He never knew that two years after he left, a brother would arrive on the exact same date and grow up to become one of the most celebrated actors in the history of American cinema.
He rests at Rose Hills Memorial Park in Whittier, California — a real grave, in a real place, for a real person whose life was genuine even if it was brief.
His parents carried him. His brothers carry the date. The family he was briefly part of went on to build extraordinary things — films, careers, relationships, children of their own — all of it layered on top of a loss that came first, before any of it, in a cold California January when a young couple said hello and goodbye to the same child in the space of a single day.
That is Mark Douglas Costner’s story. It deserves to be told with honesty, with tenderness, and with the recognition that every life — no matter how brief — leaves something behind.



















