I used to look at birthdays as nothing that should be celebrated. After all, it’s just the anniversary of me falling out of my mother (quite prematurely). The thanks should go to her. That’s who should get the cake.
J reframed that for me, though: it’s celebrating you being alive.
I’m 39 years old today. I’ve survived the breakup of my marriage and two suicide attempts. I’ve survived moving across the country and this latest poly adventure. I’ve survived coming out as femme.
And you know what? It’s good to be alive. I’m glad I’m here. I wouldn’t have said that on a fair number of past birthdays. Here’s to the future.
Thanks for reading.