Each year that passes, I like to think that I’ve grown at least an opening moment or two. I ask myself if I’ve expanded or constricted. Have I stepped out into the world or stayed, cocooned, in my cozy atmosphere of safety. If I could I would stay in the same place, content. But I know that the thing that will turn the trick has to do with me getting out into the messy, wild environment far beyond my comfort zone, far beyond my familiar. I’ve always struggled with stretching myself. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with what I dream myself to be and who I really am. All I know is that, when I push myself—out into the world—although it may feel fucked up for many moments, in the end I see myself as larger and more open. I reflect on a version of me that is who I think I really am. Beyond the fear and the anxiety and the trepidation, if I remember that the way to get there is to go through, I’m good. And each year that I grow twelve months older I can look back and say I did the best I can and that, more than anything else, is enough.
Here’s To Another Glorious Year,
The Birthday Girl