23
I’m a “birthday person.” I always have been. I was lucky enough to be raised by people who made me feel like the most important person in the world—on most days but always on February 2nd.
It’s a tale as old as time: it was a rainy day in San Francisco but at exactly 4pm, the moment I entered the world, the sun shone brightly through the hospital windows. I’ve heard it all my life: four pounds, two ounces. 2.2.2000. I was six weeks premature and unexpectedly born in the age of Aquarius; I display all the traits (it’s impossible to imagine me as the Pisces I was supposed to be). In many ways it feels like I was destined to be tied to symbolism, numerology, maybe some sort of astrological delusion.
I had a triple golden birthday when I turned two. My 20th birthday could be made into a palindrome, the same pattern read forward or backward. And although 2020 sent the world into crisis, I was convinced that 02.02.2020 was still full of magic somehow. There was power embedded in 2.2.22, in turning 22 on a day where the alignment of the universe had to work in my favor. There was no other choice.
I can remember virtually every birthday since the dawn of time. I can tell you where I was, what I was wearing, who I was with, what kind of party I was throwing, which existential question was playing in my head.
I have long-defined my sixth birthday as one of the best days of my life, for the girl who was clinically obsessed with kindergarten and her friends and being the center of attention for a brief and glorious moment. I was independent and grown enough to assert my authority over dessert, to stumble into class carrying my cupcakes that I made to celebrate my existence. My two best friends greeted me at the door that morning, throwing their arms around me and embracing me in the most genuine way a person can. We were six years old and we knew more about love than most adults I know. The greatest present a little girl can be given is the gift of belonging. They hugged me with such care, as if the three of us were precious, and their tenderness held me in place for the rest of the year.
On my eighth birthday I turned my home into a makeshift tea room. Grubby fingers doused our drinks with sugar cubes. I sipped earl grey from a porcelain cup and draped cheap boas over my friends’ shoulders—stray feathers falling to the floor. I gossiped in my tiny voice, attempting to cosplay as a 70 year old English grandmother. Turning eight meant I was old enough to throw a tea party.
It also meant I was old enough to endure, to watch the crumbling of the facade, to be scared, to feel anxious for the very first time. So I sit in my childhood bedroom at almost 24 and rage on her behalf.
In contrast, I have long (and yet I think incorrectly) considered 19 to be “the best year of my life.” It was the year of social prestige, of posing in group photos, of hiding alcohol in the dorm room, of male attention at frat parties, of Hollywood premieres, of running around LA without a care, of traveling the world, of watching the sun rise alongside baboons in Kenya, of road trips along the coast, of checking off bucket lists before grief settled in, of hiking Machu Picchu with my 90 year old grandfather and balancing precariously on top of the world. Of refusing to truly feel.
And then I turned 20 and suddenly another year passes and I’m listening to my friends scream in my face while I’m backed into the corner. “Look at me while I’m talking to you,” they say as they accuse me, criticize me, let go of any tender embrace. It’s my birthday and they’re yelling. It’s my birthday and this is the smallest I’ve ever felt. It’s my birthday and my mascara smudges the frosting on the cake—sweetness stained with sadness. I claimed this as a metaphorical foreshadowing. I’m 21 and I’m confronted repeatedly by loss. I’m 21 and the pieces of my life seem to fall apart. I’m 21 and all the numbness starts to fade.
By now we all know about the great “Pacific Plunge,” my dive into the ocean on the eve of my 22nd birthday, my attempt to leave it all behind and manifest a new beginning. And as I sat on the train to Bruges last year, I wrote about how it worked. I wrote a letter to myself and thanked her for being brave. Sitting at the desk in my Parisian chambre de bonne, I read it aloud to my therapist just days before entering 23. We both cried, and I thought for sure I had done it: mastered the art of healing.
On my 23rd birthday I had one too many drinks and pulled myself into a sea of glowing strangers, dancing with a warm embrace at my back. “You have such wonderful friends,” a voice called out to me, and I smiled back proudly, knowing for certain it was true.
On my 23rd birthday I tacked a note onto the Shakespeare & Company wall: “Like the writers who came before us, we draw our most ecstatic, most addictive thrill from the deepest sources of our own pain and curiosity and adventure. I hope I can use them for good. Here’s to turning 23.”
On my 23rd birthday I picked out a vanilla cake topped with beautiful fresh pears alongside my favorite kids in the world, and I watched their eyes light up as we blew out the candles together.
On my 23rd birthday I felt invincible.
When I was 23 I jumped without looking. I danced until the sun rose and we caught the morning metro back home. When I was 23 I traveled by myself and sat in the sticky feeling of being alone. My body imprinted on the leather seats of the train. I broke down in hostel bathrooms and I marveled at the places I used to dream of visiting. When I was 23 I climbed Dubrovnik’s City Walls. I hiked the Lake Bled Trail in isolation. I smelled the scents of my friend’s childhood home, and love appeared in the form of Slovak pumpkin soup. I belted my favorite songs in the bar in Vienna, and I navigated through neon fog at the dizzying club in London. When I was 23 I unapologetically spilled my deepest thoughts—in the rickety kitchen chair and on the ragged carpet and along the banks of the Seine.
My very last train in Europe was delayed due to an on-rail fatality that had happened earlier in the day. So I held back tears for most of the ride. We carried on and it happened again, right across the Scottish border. Two countries, two people, same day, same decision. So my heart leapt into my throat. The group three rows ahead laughed and smiled most of the way, reminiscing on their travels together blissfully. The people next to me sighed in complaint and the woman behind me binged a new TV series. I cried in my seat.
There was a brisk chill floating through the air and the sky was thick and clotted and grey. A baby boarded the train in York and I cried in my seat. When I was 23 I was reminded of the fragility of life itself.
The very best things that happened this year, and the reasons I find it all so beautiful:
Teaching three little boys how to take deep breaths
Watching as they reached for my arm in crowded places
Hearing people say, “You’re the first person I’ve told this to,” and folding their secrets gently in the palm of my hand
A friend including me in her definition of family
Shared conversation over tapas in Madrid and a sunset in Santorini and in front of the Eiffel Tower as it sparkled
Being sent pictures of my friends’ tears as they read my stories—not because I want them to cry but because I want us to feel together
Listening as people told me they loved me—and really meant it this time
Every single embrace, even the ones sent from thousands of miles away
There’s no letter for my therapist to cry at this year, no premature declaration of healing; the world is a very heavy place right now. Just a list. I doubt it would elicit any dramatic reaction from either one of us; my mind is a messy place right now—juggling every memory and every feeling with greater depth than ever before.
For the first time I’m unable to see into the future. I have no idea where this year will take me, and I have no choice but to succumb to the rhythm of the universe. The last couple weeks I’ve been trying to accept the discomfort (albeit reluctantly) and I’ve lamented over getting older, of having no idea (!) where this crazy, nonlinear path will lead me next, of feeling rather helpless in the process. But tonight I sat in someone else’s childhood bedroom, the one that belongs to the 11 year old boy I now babysit occasionally. We reviewed his Spanish flashcards together, cheering enthusiastically every time he got the answer right. “Thank you for always listening to me,” he said with the utmost sincerity. Moments later his sister came in to wish me a good night and repeat to me, over and over, how happy she is to have someone who “gets” her. The best present a little girl can be given is the gift of belonging. “I hope you include me in your book’s dedication,” she said to me from the backseat last week. I looked at her big, bright, eight year old eyes in the rearview mirror and told her I couldn’t imagine not dedicating it to the eight year old inside all of us. The house on the hill, the Spanish homework in childhood bedrooms, is remarkably different from a drunken night at Cafe Oz, but—at least in this moment— I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
When I was 23 I was happy and excited and sad and angry and confused and vengeful and somehow both afraid and incredibly fearless. When I was 23 I was also six, eight, 19, 21—every age I’ve ever been—every mistake I’ve ever made, every symbol and every number and everything that is written in the stars and the product of everyone who cares. When I was 23 I saw the world’s biggest sights, but true joy was collected in the small, “list-worthy” moments. There’s no such thing as a “best” year… but I think it’s as close as it comes.
Thank you for embracing me for all that I am.
The best present a little girl can be given is the gift of belonging.
Here’s to turning 24.