My Birthday

It’s my birthday. At this time last year I didn’t know I would be turning 38 without Eva here. It’s another milestone that reminds me she’s gone. And since this holiday belongs solely to me, I have the right to skip it.

We started trying to conceive our second child four years ago this month, as I turned 34. Hopeful we would avoid the dreaded geriatric age of 35. Now I’m well past that and the child still isn’t here, but my age had nothing to do with it.

I sit on my yoga mat and reflect back in my journal to last years birthday, when I sat in the same spot, full with child, and set intentions for my next trip around the sun. Her presence is acknowledged with every one. But her diagnosis came a month later blacking out all of those dreams.

This year I turn 38 without her, and the only intentions I’m setting are the same as what I said in the new year: I’m going to go with the flow and love my people. That’s all I have the energy for. I’m okay with that because this trip around the sun I carry the knowledge of how little is within my control.

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