I was going to write a letter to myself for my birthday. I always write letters on birthdays.
But not this year. This year I have gone through some of my old letters. With a box of tissues to wipe the tears of sadness and the tears of mirth. I have revisited my life.
Man. What a life.
The years of self doubt, self hatred of feeling like nothing. The excitement of a new baby, the complete devastation of loss. The wonderful times and the not so good times.
As I read through these letters I see myself evolving. From doormat to diva. From broken teen to confident woman.
Fake it till you make it baby. And I am nearly there.
Sure, I still feel unsure, scared even, in new situations. I still seek approval. I still find it so hard to ask for help or stand up for myself.
But this life has forced me to gain strength as I gain years. Those hurdles have built my emotional muscles to ensure that I have the stamina to go on. Some years I was ready to give up, I tried to give up, but some force prevented me from succeeding.
We have plans for you.
I am meant to be here.
So today as I contemplate my past, I will try and see past the advancing years – the wrinkles appearing, the young fresh faces of women in their 20’s, my expanding arse – and celebrate what it is to be me.
An older, wiser me. A me that would be different and emptier if it wasn’t for those track and field events of my life. And M. Oh, M. Instead of breaking me, destroying me, you have helped me grow and become the woman that I am.
Still, I hope it is fucking hot down there. And your arse is sore you piece of shit. Thankyou.
So here is a toast on my birthday, charge your glasses and join me in celebrating all of us. A sum of our life experiences, growing and evolving.
And so God damn fabulous it fucking hurts.