77, 7, 37

What a week.

My dad would have been 77. We welcomed 7 years of marriage. I turned 37 years old.

There were days, especially his birthday, I felt my heart was held down by an anchor.

Other days I came up for air, and the air was good.

My aunt and cousin came to visit and we drank up every ounce of the California October sun. I celebrated my birthday in a silk red dress and felt grateful to be alive.

I drove us down the Big Sur Coastline and we breathed in the Redwoods and met a hippie grandma waitress who told me I need to have a girl and name her Golden.

Last night I went out with girlfriends and shared laughter and plates of food, a sparkler in a birthday cake to end the night. I am finding my people here in California, and I am finding my footing in life, little by little at 37. Sometimes I’m still frustrated I’m not bolder, or braver, or that I still worry too much about what people think. But I do love myself, and my people love me too, so that’s a start.

And of course, through it all, there’s little Wilder. My antidote to pain. We laugh and smile endlessly. There are tears and challenges and days it all feels like too much, but the good overwhelms me. He gives me purpose and reminds me of who I really am: a source of love. I give him all that I can.

It’s been a hard week but I got through it. I drowned in sorrow and I came up for air. I made it to the other side.

The older I get and the more waves of life that I experience I realize that the ups and downs are normal. The waves beat you up, but you get stronger. Some days you work hard to swim, while other days you just get to float and take it all in.

I’m doing my best. I’m learning to swim and relish the days I can simply float.