This past weekend, I celebrated a birthday. I was in New York City to ring in 37, and officially enter my late 30s.
Iāve always loved birthdays, but aging has become a more complicated experience in the last few years. Since losing my mom right before my 34th birthday, I have become eternally more aware of how much of a privilege getting older is. I bristle at othersā comments about wrinkles and the loathing that seems to come for turning a year older. Itās such a gift, one so many donāt get ā as is every breath and every new day where we get to see the sun rise, feel it set. I know I sound like a broken record in this little corner sometimes, but what can I say? My perspective was permanently shifted.
In the days leading up to my birthday this year, I found myself thinking about how much Iāve changed in the last few years, and about the ways Iāve stayed the same. I no longer care as much about what people think of me, am no longer embarrassed about the things that I used to assume made me different or weird, uncool or cringey (like sharing my messiness with the internet). Some of that is age Iām sure, and perhaps some of it was born out of losing my mom the way I did. Iām more comfortable in my own skin (even with, yep, the small wrinkles that are suddenly showing up to the party) and in my decisions than I was even 5 years ago, and have gotten a lot better at letting ānoā be a complete sentence. Iām less worried about what honoring my boundaries means to someone else (though forever a work in progress), and have come to realize my mom was right that no one is paying as much attention to you as you think they are.
At the same time, there is something that admittedly scares me a little about getting older. I am grateful for the opportunity, and yet Iām nervous to do it seemingly aloneā¦.and āaloneā is really just code for without my mom, because I know I have family and friends and a community. But 37 and a few days old, and deep down, Iām still very much just someone who desperately misses her mother. I have had so many days where I wanted desperately to call her, to have her tell me what she thought I should do, or to just listen to the things that scare me. While age 36 in particular included a lot of good change and a lot of adventures with people I love, it also had a number of ups and downs (moments where I so wished my mom was available to give me advice). Iāve wanted to hear her tell me everything is okay, to hear her laugh or tell me Iām being silly. Iāve pretended sheās texted me to go eat a brownie or watch something funny to cheer myself up, and tried to recall every reassuring thing she ever told me ā things I now beat myself up for not meticulously cataloguing and saving in my brain to recall now that she canāt do it for me.
I suspect no matter how old I get, I will still feel that way ā still wish so badly my mom was the first call I got the morning of my birthday, singing āHappy Birthdayā in her thick New York accent.
I hadnāt been in New York City for my birthday in four years. Before the pandemic, Iād had a string of birthdays that Iād traveled back to my hometown for from the west coast, and it had started to become something of a tradition. This was the first one since losing my mom, and even though she hadnāt lived in New York in decades when she passed, the city is painted for me with memories of my childhood with her. Where we stayed near Central Park reminded me of the many summer adventures we used to have, going to Broadway plays and museum visits, along with my childhood best friend and her mom. I had a good time, but I have to admit I donāt think I want to go back on my birthday again. Being there, I missed my mom even more than I expected, and found myself forgetting she was gone, wondering when she was going to call me and ask how things were going, or if Iād had an Italian seven-layer cookie yet. Itās like she was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Itās funny ā I never anticipated becoming someone who views her own birthday with a bittersweetness or even the mellowest flavor of grief, but I guess thatās where Iām at. For now, anyways, and Iām coming to accept that thatās okay. If getting older ā particularly after the last few years ā has taught me anything, itās that two things can be true at the same time. That, and that life is a precious adventure. Make it all count, in whatever ways are meaningful for you.
+++++
Iām writing this on the plane headed back home to California (apologies in advance for typos). We are quite literally chasing the sun; that recognition struck me as I thought about writing about my own next trip around it,Ā metaphorically speaking, and you know I love a romanticized moment. Iām looking forward to what this next year brings, and Iām hoping it includes me becoming better at being kinder to myself (something my mom always reminded me to do when my perfectionist streak would come out; turns out itās harder for me to do when Iām on my own) and perhaps braver in some new ways. One thing I really want to do: learn to make bread (yes, I did not get on that bandwagon in 2020).
I hope you all are enjoying the last sips of summer. I so appreciate you being here.
Thanks for reading,
Joelle
Another great read Joelle. Since losing my mom, I also see aging as a gift. At 43, I embrace and welcome any new fine lines. I wear them like a badge of honour.