It’s My Birthday, and It’s Complicated.

It’s my birthday! 

And oof. . . it’s been all kinds of complicated.

This time about a month ago, I was driving down the road on a gorgeous spring day. It was the kind of day that brings you life - one of those days with the sun shining, windows down, good music playing, and a sense that winter may actually end.

As I sat behind the wheel, I thought, “I feel so happy to be alive right now.”

And then it struck me - I hadn’t had that thought in almost two years. Not since my sister really started getting sick. Not since it became clear to me that she was dying. And definitely not since she had to leave.

It felt significant. For the first time in two years, I wasn’t consciously trying to figure out a way to make room for both my joy and my grief. I was, in that moment, spontaneously happy to be alive, without effort or conditions. It felt like something to celebrate.

And so, I decided - I will celebrate! My upcoming birthday felt like the perfect time to lean in, especially since I didn’t do much last year (I love birthdays, but I couldn’t find much to celebrate five months after my sister’s death).

I got excited. I made plans. I rallied friends. And somewhere along the line, without even realizing it, I decided that I would do my best to make this a “normal” fun birthday. Anything “normal” sounded so good.

I tucked my grief behind a wall and decided to focus on the good stuff.

And well. . . I bet you can guess where this is going.

It wasn’t long before a grief tsunami hit.

It started with a building level of irritation, followed by growing anxiety, all of which I chalked up to everyday stressors. After three migraines in four days in the week leading up to my birthday, I had to admit that it was more than that.

I had to admit that grief was invited to my birthday, whether I wanted it there or not. 

My body knew - even if my head wasn’t ready to admit it - that a big part of me was so damn sad that my Seester wouldn’t be here to celebrate with me. And another part of me was sad that I didn’t know what a “normal” birthday looked like anymore. Much as I might have wanted to, I couldn’t pretend those parts away.

So I made my birthday dinner reservations, and I ugly cried for an hour in the bathroom. I mapped out my solo birthday hike, and I browsed online and tried to guess what my sister would have bought for me this year. 

I suppose this is what a “normal” birthday looks like for me now.

Somewhere in the middle of birthday dinners and blowing out candles and celebrating the gift of being alive, I’m making room for the ache that never leaves me. It’s not an unequivocally fun birthday, but it’s not an unequivocally sorrowful one either. It’s in the in between, and that’s where I live.

I am here, and my sister is not, and there’s no escaping the harshness of that truth. And yet, the sun shines. And yet, there is cake. And yet, there are going to be moments when I’m driving down the road and think, “I feel so happy to be alive.”

Slowly, I’m building a heart that’s capable of making room for it all. Perhaps you are too.

And that, my friends, feels like something to celebrate.