Written on a birthday that became something much larger than a celebration.
March 15th was my birthday.
And March 15th, I lost my best friend.
There is something surreal about holding those two truths at the same time. One day marked by celebration, another marked by loss. One reminding me that I am still here, another reminding me that she is not.
If you have read my writing before, you know I often talk about how we live in paradox. Life is rarely either/or. It is almost always both/and. We can feel joy and grief in the same moment. We can feel gratitude and heartbreak at the same time. We can be celebrating one life while mourning another.
This is that.
This birthday was the clearest example I have ever lived of the paradoxes I so often write about. The day I celebrate my life is now the day I will always remember hers.
| “The day marked by candles and cake is also marked by tears and silence.”
And strangely, I feel honored.
Honored that every year, when my birthday comes around, I will not only think about getting older, but about the miles we traveled together, the laughter we shared, and the conversations only best friends understand. Honored that her life is now woven into the way I will mark time for the rest of mine.
We went to Mexico together.
We traveled with our husbands.
We made the kind of memories that don’t just live in photos, but live in your body — in the way you laugh, in the way certain songs hit differently, in the way a place can suddenly make your chest ache with both gratitude and grief at the same time.
She was not just a friend.
She was one of my people.
The kind of person who knew the real stories. The kind of person who had seen me in the middle of life — not just the highlights, but the messy, complicated, ordinary parts — and stayed anyway.
The kind of person you assume will always be there, until one day they aren’t.
Loss has a way of stripping life down to what actually matters. Not the emails. Not the deadlines. Not the things we think we’ll get to someday.
What matters are the people we sit with.
The trips we say yes to.
The conversations we don’t rush.
The kindness we offer when it would be easier to stay busy.
The forgiveness we give before it’s too late.
The love we say out loud instead of assuming there will always be another chance.
Every day really is a gift. Not in the cliché way we sometimes say it, but in the very real, very human way that becomes obvious the moment someone we love is no longer here.
We do not know how many birthdays we get. We do not know how many dinners, how many phone calls, how many ordinary Tuesdays with the people who matter most.
What we do know is this: we are here today.
So be kind.
Be patient.
Tell people you love them.
Take the trip.
Have the hard conversation.
Laugh longer than you planned to.
Put your phone down.
Pay attention.
Because one day, with or without warning, life will remind you that none of this is guaranteed.
I lost my best friend, and I celebrated another year of my life.
Both are true.
Both belong.
Both are part of the same story.
This is the paradox of being human. This is the paradox I write about. This is the paradox we all live in, whether we want to or not.
From now on, my birthday will always hold both grief and gratitude. And I know this is the lesson she leaves me with — that the greatest way to honor the people we love is to live fully with the time we are given. To be happy. To have grace. To share joy.
She lived this way.
Every. Single. Day.
Every Day Is a Gift.
Miss you, friend — and thank you for showing me the way.
