24.

I love birthdays. I have always loved birthdays. I normally send my parents a list of things I want and I make extravagant plans. I was the 10 year old that demanded to have her birthday party at the Drury Inn and Suites because hotel parties were the new, cool way to celebrate. I cannot remember the last time that I was not over the moon excited for my birthday. I literally used to begin a countdown as soon as the year began—January 1 & how many days are there until my birthday? Even last year as I recovered from a major surgery four days prior to my birthday, I absolutely had to celebrate. It’s a present. It’s life. It’s your own personal New Year’s party. I love my birthday. And anyone who knows me well knows that it’s just always been an exciting time for me to look forward to. I love my birthday.

But for the first time in my now 24 years of life, I was not looking forward to yesterday. I dreaded it. And not the superficial “I going to act like I’m not excited about my birthday, but really where’s my surprise” dreading it. I didn’t even want it to be recognized. Everybody be cool—it’s just a normal day. But seriously—if I could have skipped over the whole day, I would have. Anyone who knows we well knows that this is not me. I am sure my mother has been confounded for weeks as to why she didn’t have a list of presents I wanted and a full itinerary of my birthday plans. I seriously contemplated removing my birthday from Facebook profile (because let’s be honest—we would all forget each other’s birthdays). Our Community of Practice (basically everyone who is supervised by our Dean of Students) held it’s monthly meeting in our office and a good friend of mine that likes to do his homework in my office when I’m not there left “Happy Birthday” written on the whiteboard outside my office and I erased it before everyone arrived hoping that if I didn’t draw attention to the day, we would conduct business as usual. Yeah—that didn’t happen. My supervisor commented that the only way we can stop celebrating birthdays is to stop having them. And I caught myself—for just a moment—sarcastically saying in my head “Well that might be better for me…”

But I love birthdays. I love my birthday. What the hell is wrong with me?

As best as I could, I attempted to move on with the rest of the day as casual as possible. I sent some emails. I had a phone interview. I went to class. I had dinner plans, but not birthday plans—they were plans to catch up with a friend. Not birthday plans. I made that very clear. I repeated it over and over. Just to make sure I had things in perspective. You’re not celebrating your birthday, Pearson! 

You don’t have a life worth celebrating!!! The boy you love doesn’t want you! The friend you thought you had doesn’t need you! The work you do doesn’t matter! You haven’t secured a job! You’re unworthy of celebrating! This is not your birthday!

The enemy always fights the hardest when he knows that God has something great in store for you.

In the month of March, Cedric Garron cared for my dog while I went on Spring Break and attended a conference. Earlier this week, he reminded me that he still had the spare key to my home. Ok? When I returned home from my not-birthday dinner, I was greeted by a house full of friends, a candled cake, and plenty of reminders as to why each day is a gift.

My worth of my birth and legacy of my life doesn’t have to be measured in a turn-up of celebrations or a plethora of wrapped gifts. But in 24 beautifully, compassionately composed letters reminding me and him of who & whose I am—the woman, who from now on, everyday, and forever, feet will hit the floor each morning the devil will say Oh crap, she’s up.