Birthdays are hard. They haven’t always been, but with each passing one, they seem to get a little tougher to celebrate with joy.
Here I sit on the cusp of turning 35 and to be quite frank, it’s been a pretty crappy year. And of all the things this year has held, the one voice I hear in my head is one from five years ago. An endocrinologist telling me while she knew I wasn’t ready yet, I should consider having children soon. And then she said, “with type 1 diabetes, you should really try and have all your babies by the time you’re 35.” So here I sit, in this season of life I never anticipated being in, and I’m nowhere close to having children.
The faith it takes to believe in a plan higher than my own is tremendous. And this year, more than most, I have struggled to hold on to that faith. Many people have carried me through this year. My family, a special group of friends, and especially my brother. It’s not been fair for my brother to carry me, but he has. He’s been the most solid human rock I’ve known in my life, and I cannot imagine life without him in it. Quite honestly, he’s my hero. He’s the standard every date is compared to, and he’s the strongest, most capable man I know.
This year, his faith has been tested and stretched. He has been faithful and prayerful in a season where it would’ve been easy to give up. He has carried his family and has supported everyone around him. He’s amazing.
But here I sit, trying to cherry pick the highlights of my year. The reality is the dark days seem to outnumber the bright spots. I don’t want to get older. I don’t want to celebrate my wrinkles and my age spots.