Birthday blabber

Why am I writing a post on my birthday? Is it a desperate cry for some HBDs? Maybe. Is it a way to avoid thinking about turning 55, the age of my maternal grandmother when I was born? Probably. Is it a chance to speak about something we rarely acknowledge on this or any platform. Absolutely.

Getting older is hard. It’s a gift, yes. It beats the alternative of course. But it is a mindf*ck (and a bodyf*ck). Your relationship to time changes radically. Your sense of “the future” narrows, the urgency escalates. The value of the people in your life multiplies.

Life can feel theoretical when you’re growing up. So many possibilities laid out in front of you. So many roads to take, knowing you can always retrace your steps and try some of the others.

Now, those roads can feel more confining. Will I have time to come back around if I don’t love this one? The weight of these choices is heavy, my bad back and aching feet unsure if they can bear the load.

Aging parents (if you’re lucky), frayed friendships, children (or the absence of them) growing up, a steady stream of doctor’s appointments and the stark realization that the ability to move is one of the greatest blessings ever.

And not guaranteed.

2025 has been a weird year. Made weirder by my heart deciding it likes to go off on a Neal Peart drum solo every so often. Yes, I now have A-fib, or atrial fibrillation, an irregular heart rhythm that can strike any time and sent me to the hospital back in January so they could shock my ticker back to normal.

I don’t recommend it.

But that’s the reality of aging. The body is more prone to funky beats, weird tweaks and strange blots and blobs all over.

The mind, filled with wisdom, but also susceptible to wrong turns and slipped gears.

And yet, like all of you, I show up. Motivated by a growing urgency to make things in the world a bit righter.

This is the true gift of aging. The realization that we can do things. Big things. Lasting things. Hard things.

Because we’ve already done the hardest thing of all.

Getting here.