Birthdays are weird. It’s your special day and everyone reaches out and celebrates you. Just you being you… existing. It seems so backwards when I think about it. The real celebration should be for our mothers, the life-givers. All we did was show up… and probably in a pretty rude fashion.  

And the more I think about it, maybe that’s it. That’s the key. Our presence is the present. Maybe I’m discounting the power of just being here. Of just being present for the people in our lives. Of being the child, the spouse, the friend, the coworker… the supporter, the cheerleader, the shoulder to cry on, the bright spot in a day, the advice giver, the advice taker, the listener, the hero. 

We are so many things to so many people that I don’t think we ever take time to truly consider the magnitude of our mere existence (at least I know I don’t). We allow ourselves to get caught up in the day-to-day, the deadlines, the have-tos and the wish-I-coulds. Until it’s that one day of the year—your birthday. Where you and the world stop for the briefest of moments to celebrate you… just you. All of your silly quirks, your shortcomings and everything that makes you who you are. 

So here’s to another trip around the sun. Here’s to you and who you are in my life. But lastly, here’s to me. Happy 36th birthday, Self. Make the most of it.