39

I turned 39 on Tuesday. My dad, whose tried-and-true role is listening in the background of phone calls to the recounting of my chaos, chimed in on my birthday to remind me that he was 39 when I was born.

At 39, he welcomes the last of his five children. At 39, on this impossibly sunny and bright morning, I sit among a divorce decree, settlement agreement, and name change documents.

At 39, my dad awakes to the sound of cartoons, quibbles between siblings, and cries from a newborn. At 39, I wake up too early and watch the sunrise, alone, in my house of silence, wondering what my kids are doing down the road, just five minutes away.

Are they arguing over which cartoon to watch this morning? Do they miss me as much as I miss them? Is Alba’s short hair in knots, asking to be brushed? Did she wake up with that sleepy face that melts me every single time? Is Rafe talking about the basketball game he wants to watch later? Is he still feeling proud that he made bagel bites for the first time by himself?

My dad got all the moments. I am allowed half.

This is not what I imaged or hoped for when my belly grew to an impossible size for my frame. Twice.

And yet, life doesn’t keep a list of our hopes and dreams. It meanders in ways we weren’t expecting. I was on the straight and narrow, but life was curving all long, like the snakes that were consistently showing up in my path for two years, warning me of what was ahead.

I ignored the signs. I ignored when my body screamed at me to pay attention.

If we can’t control where life takes us, the least we can do is honor how we’re feeling along the way. For me, I’m finding that means I have to work really hard to listen to myself. When I’m convinced I don’t know why I’m feeling low, I remember to breathe. The thoughts become quieter and I can access the why that’s always deep down under the chaos.

And, that’s my hope for this 39th year, to learn how to truly listen deeply to myself, and find out what I’m made of.