This past Friday, I became thirty-seven years old.
I have never really liked birthdays much (my own). I love celebrating other people’s birthdays, but when it comes to my own, I am anti-celebratory. My birthday has always been a time of reflection for me, and a personal gage of how much I have accomplished (or not accomplished) from year to year.
For many reasons, this birthday was one of the most melancholy that I have ever experienced. The worst birthday that I have ever had was my twenty-ninth, the year that my sister passed away, twelve days before my birthday. This birthday is a close second.
I am going through many changes in my life, many of which have been beyond my control. I have been trying valiantly to keep all the pieces of my life together, but sometimes the pieces are so misshapen, that I do not know how they can possibly fall into place. I know that eventually the pieces do fall where they are supposed to fall, but like any puzzle, the fight to find the proper fit and the frustration in doing so can take its toll.
I am doing the best that I can.
Meanwhile, I am thankful for the good things that I do have: a beautiful and healthy baby girl, a loving and supportive family, good health, and a job, despite my usual grievances, that pays the bills. And that’s enough of a birthday gift for me.