A time-traveling birthday blob's ramblings...

A retrospective of 31, as I enter 32.

I write this on the eve of my 32nd birthday.

After over three decades, I know nothing changes during my birthday. I feel the same as I did the day before even though I was technically a year younger. Clock time marks time’s passage but is also a relic of capitalism and industrialization. However, it provides a map of my journey and milestones without much fuss.

I look back at the last year of my life, and while I’d love to say it was uneventful… It broke me in ways I didn’t expect before I figured out how to stitch myself back together. 31 taught me how to break myself open to vulnerability and sharing myself with others— before learning the hard way, and shutting myself back in to heal. In many ways, it feels like a part of me died and I’m now a shell of a human trying to find myself again. I give myself compassion— these things happen after tumultuous breakups and through treacherous navigation.

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Yesterday, my pelvic floor physical therapist and I had an appointment. We caught each other up on our lives and lamented all the radiating pain stored in my hips. Months ago, Millie sent me off to my medical team for continued care, noting that I now had tools to help ease the tension. Now, I schedule sporadic visits when there’s a finicky flare. She changed the trajectory of my entire year when she insisted I see an endometriosis and pelvic pain specialist. Without her, I think I’d still be fighting with insurance and a trauma-inducing medical complex, including the providers.

I tell her about the car accident and August’s horrible cycle as she presses firmly against my muscles. Shared access intimacy means that her touch feels warm and safe, despite my usual hesitation with touch along the small of my back. It reminds me that even when I may like someone, access intimacy is not hardwired into the DNA of our relationship. Intimacy is earned through a variety of steps and trials, culminating in a mutual understanding of trust. I learned to trust Millie with my body, ensuring my care is in safe hands.

That wasn’t always the case this year. I fell deeply in love with another human being who wasn’t the right fit at this stage in life. In our attempts to build our access intimacy, we moved too fast and jumped into our partnership before realizing that we could not give each other what the other wanted or deserved. Even this far out, I often scare myself out of writing about our relationship because of how it’ll be perceived. But perhaps this year, I’ll stop letting my fear rule over me and just… talk about it. Especially in contrast to the care team I’ve amassed over my time here in New York. Access intimacy means never having to say you’re sorry, and allowing someone to care for you in the ways that you desire and deserve.

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As someone who made it part of their livelihood to give a shit about birthdays— I find them to be fraught affairs. For instance, after attempts to make sure that an ex was held in isolation to work on their pressing deadline— I got into a fight with them on their birthday because I hadn’t gone out of my way to make it extra special for them. (They never asked.) They also made me cry in the wee hours of the evening, after they returned to my home drunk before yelling at me for something I had confided was one of my worst insecurities not even a week prior. My friends complain about how putting pressure on this day caused them to break when something went haplessly wrong— like my best friend and her failed work experiments. Of course, when someone didn’t ask to be born, the celebrations feel… tenuous at best.

I write the remainder of this post from my bed, where I’ve always found myself bursting with inspiration. I’m hosting a gathering for my friends and loved ones, which always feels strange for someone who has so much social anxiety. The last time I held a large birthday party, I was deep into a depression that stemmed from my insecurities and inadequacies. I was so worried that no one wanted to be around me in my slump, that I almost cancelled it. Eventually, my friends came through to support me and hold me in my precarious breakdown to love on me and make sure I felt good. So, I decided, at 32— with the most vibrant community of loved ones I’ve ever had in a place— to host another one.

I’m sure it will feel strange: Some guests who celebrated with me last year are no longer in my life.

I also got married this past year, which feels like it pales in comparison to 32 years of living. I don’t know what the rest of the future holds, but I’m grateful for being here. Thank you for celebrating with me.