And Many More…

🎶 I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling forty-two… 🎶

Wait. That’s not how the song goes.

My birthday is Sunday. Mother Nature has been kind, and I’m not afraid of the number. After thirty, milestones jump decades until your sixties. Assuming that I’ll make it to at least eighty, I can’t help but feel like this version of me is an equator, navigating the middle latitudes of existence.

These stages are difficult because they rarely come with clear narratives. They’re where worlds remain distinct while still touching. A point of reference. A drawbridge, almost.

Even how to celebrate my birthday has been divisive. Because wanting a celebration comes with vulnerability. If you admit you want it, someone can drop the ball or fail to deliver.

When you do get the fanfare, you feel nothing though you expected to feel everything. Or, you tell yourself that birthdays don’t matter because everyone has them. You may have even said you didn’t want a fuss. And yet, the blues remain.

The knowledge that just your being born has made the world a bit brighter. This might be the most human hope of all. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

One worth giving to myself.

At the equator of life, let’s be brave enough to admit that longing never left and, what’s more, to stop apologizing for it.

Gratitude and gravity can coexist. Happiness has pockets of unmet desires. Birthdays matter, even when we pretend they don’t.

So, make a wish.