The first and only earthquake I ever felt was on my thirtieth birthday. It was a pretty clear signal my thirties were going to be fascinating.
My thirty-first birthday was the first time my parents met the Viking, and I fell even more deeply in love with the man. I already knew he was my mate, but I also knew it was going to take him longer to be comfortable with the idea that the beautiful, loving, smart, passionate, crazy tornado which had swept into his life adding chaos was there to stay. Two years later, I’m even more of a chaos tornado, and I’m still there.
My thirty-second birthday was one of the hardest I remember. My mom had had her bionic knee put in, and we were all stressed, exhausted, and incredibly depressed. Our lives were swamped in this miasma of hopelessness and stress. My sister, though, was really special. She got me tickets at a super fancy theater to Catching Fire and bought me a cupcake. I think I will try to focus on that in my memory.
When I woke up this afternoon, Mom asked me how 33 feels. I started to shrug and make the standard comments like “after a certain age it doesn’t matter,” but I realized I was lying. Thirty-three feels happy. It feels hopeful. Other birthdays have been depressing or stressful because I’ve always felt so behind, but not this year.
This year I feel like I’m standing at the beginning or at a renewal. Right now, I feel happier, prettier, saner, and more powerful than I have in years. I feel like my creativity is glowing out of me. I feel like when I walk into a room, I belong there, and I have as much right as anyone to be there. I feel like being in this skin, in this body, and in this brain is not only where I belong but is also a strong, wonderful place to be.
I feel brave again. Thirty-three feels brave.
I feel like I survived thirty-one and thirty-two, and maybe thirty-three is the year to thrive.
Thirty-three is the year to kick some ass and change the world.