Today is my thirty third birthday, and I am feeling grateful and scared. Grateful, now more than ever, for another year. (I can promise that I’ll never dread another birthday or celebrate another anniversary of my 29th birthday.) Scared because I might not get to raise my daughters. Only time will tell.
When I lay in bed awake at night (something I never used to do–Underhills are of a tribe of glorious sleepers), I think about how all I want to do is be with my family. Then I think of my mom.
My mom died at 46. Forty six. I’ve always known that was young. The older I get, the more I realize just how young that is though. And then I think about the fact that I am only 33, and I am desperate to make it to 46 (and beyond). I have shed many tears wondering if I’ll live as long as my mom did. Wondering if I’ll get the time to love my daughters the way she loved me. Wondering if I’ll be lucky enough to leave them with enough of me to get through their lives having known my heart. A mother’s love is irreplaceable. It’s something that I am all too aware of.
But I can’t go through this day without just smiling. I am another year older, and approximately 72 and a half years wiser. I will always remember 32. It sucked — and I am still sorting it out — but it was the year that taught me that I can do anything.
My hope for 33 is that it will be the year that I have enough courage and dedication to myself to follow my heart. To really live the way I want to live and to be who I want to be.