Birthdays used to feel like checkpoints—quiet moments to take stock or brace myself for what might unravel next. But this year feels different. It feels whole. Full. Sacred, even.

This past week has unfolded like a love letter—quiet, steady, full of presence. I’ve been wrapped in the kind of celebration that doesn’t need candles or fanfare to feel holy.

There were long, lingering conversations with dear friends—shared over charcuterie and sunlight with my work fam, a long-anticipated phone call with one of my bests in Jersey, a shoreline walk between Mission Bay and Crystal Pier with one of my “day ones,” flip-flops in hand and the sound of waves filling the spaces between stories. All rhythms of connection that felt overwhelmingly like family.

One of my favorite humans hosted a backyard pool party and thought of everything: floaties with armrests, a cooler stocked just for me, thoughtful refreshment refills so I didn’t have to get out of the pool—and a key lime pie that made me pause.

Years ago, I had to cut out of one of her pool parties early to go pick up a key lime pie for myself because the person I was with couldn’t be bothered to celebrate my birthday at all.

But this pie—this one was chosen for me, remembered, layered with care.

Before my crew broke into “Happy Birthday,” she played Return of the Mack—my anthem—and I beamed so bright I forgot to guard my joy.

We caught a beautiful sunset at Cordiano Winery last night, and the beautiful sliver of the new Cancer moon on the drive home. A server remembered me and complimented my hair. All week there’s been a quiet buzz of being known and remembered in small, unexpected ways.

And then there’s today: ribs slow-smoking on the Traeger, bourbon BBQ sauce simmering on the stove, cornbread from scratch cooling on the counter. When my family asked what I wanted this year, I didn’t hesitate: I just wanted to cook, to share a meal, to enjoy the process.

Tomorrow, I’ll bike with Jen to grab coffee and some silly, TikTok-famous dessert before heading to a belly dancing show and a sampling of Persian food—my favorite. And then we’ll celebrate again with more family before flying to Kauai, where I’ll crack open the books I’ll be teaching in the fall, letting the ocean breeze carry me into the next chapter.

This is what it feels like to be celebrated—not with noise, but with knowing.

I don’t need a big announcement or a “look at me” moment. I just need these days, this body, this breath. I need the people who show up with full hearts and easy laughter, who ask how I’m doing and really listen to the answer.

Another year on this planet. Another trip around the sun in this beautiful, weird, miraculous life.

And I’m grateful.
Quietly.
Deeply.
Completely.

Gratitude lands differently when you’ve known what it’s like to feel dismissed, unseen, or uncelebrated. I don’t live there anymore, but I remember. And that remembering makes the joy feel bigger. It sharpens the sweetness. It humbles me, too. The contrast isn’t the point—but it’s the reason I don’t take any of this for granted.

May we all find moments that remind us we’re deeply loved—
not because we asked for them,
but because we’re finally ready to receive them.

Here’s to another year of becoming—
of softening, opening, showing up as we are.
Of celebrating the milestones no one else sees,
but that matter more than cake and candles ever could.

However you’re moving through your own season,
I hope you feel celebrated in the corners of your life
that don’t always get the spotlight.

We all deserve that kind of love.