Originally posted on 7 September, 2020

I recently turned 21. In previous years, I have counted the seconds to midnight. Waited with bated breath for the calendar to read September 6^th. I have then flooded my status wall with pictures and long quotes. Poems and reminiscent messages.

This time, however, I was generally unexcited. Not bored, or tired. Just not jumpy, excited, or anxious. I was calm. Happy and calm.

I could blame my lack of excitement on the fact that my last 2 birthdays were utter disasters. Their memories, although not raw, sting if I focus too much on them. So I don’t.

In a way, they might have left me fearing my special day was jinxed. And for a moment, I did think that this one was too. But it didn’t turn out so bad.

So, instead, I’ll blame my calm state on life. I’m currently nursing a hangover. But not from yesterday’s wine, from indulgence. Because that is what I did for my birthday this year. I played, I indulged my inner woman, I let her out to play. I was vulnerable and bold, quiet and loud. I was present in the moment, without fear, self-criticism, or anticipation.

This weekend I accepted her, loved her, was her.

She has to go back inside now. She’s too dangerous for the streets. But she’s happy. And so am I. I am happy and calm. Grateful for life, love, and grace.

Content.

Happy Birthday to me.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash