Birthday. Womb Exodus Day. Solar Return.
However you phrase it, today I turned 37.
It’s been a beautiful day. The calls, the texts, upcoming plans with some of my best friends. My mom indulging my ridiculous puzzle habit, even though I’m grown and don’t expect gifts. So many treats. More than I’ll be able to eat alone. Luckily, I have plenty of willing helpers.
It’s a cliché of a cliché, but if anyone had told my younger self I’d be happier now than I have been at any other point in my life (save for perhaps childhood), I’d have rolled my eyes.
“Yeah, right!” I can hear younger Sara say.
Yeah. Really. Yes.
I’ve had loss. I still catch myself missing my grandparents. I wish they had seen my weight loss, my promotion at work, the way my personality’s sharpened and polished.
I like to think they’re always with me, but my heart longs to drive down that gravel country road to the farm one more time.
I still miss Jack.
I’ve made friends. Lost contact with old ones either by intention or life causing the days to melt away like snow and suddenly it’s years later; is their number still the same?
I’ve had trials physically and emotionally.
But there’s been so much good. I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been. I’m strong mentally. Stronger than I assumed I could be.
I’ve pushed people to become better, and they’ve pushed me to do the same.
I adopted a new dog, who has helped me heal with his goofy antics and proclivity for snuggles.
I’ve learned to allow myself to rest. That’s it’s good to be kind, but never at the expense of losing myself. That the way I respect myself becomes the blueprint for how others respect me.
I’ve improved and embraced my creativity like never before.
I love. So much.
And I am loved. So much.
And I love myself. So much.
Everything else is frosting on the cake.