the anniversary of the day on which a person was born, typically treated as an occasion for celebration and the giving of gifts
On the eve of the close of another trip around the sun, I can’t help but reflect on the year gone by. Why is it as I finally get used to saying the previous number, the next number is jamming itself up against my face?
Staring at the last year of my 40s is so incredibly odd. It’s almost as if I wish I were turning 50 to get it over with already. At least then you get an AARP card and loads of discount. Forty-nine feels a little like Florida, or god’s waiting room as my people call it.
I find it interesting when people talk about the date of their diagnosis as being a rebirth of sorts. I still believe in celebrating the day I was born, but my diagnosis day is more about showing a big middle finger to MS and saying you ain’t takin’ me down.
So as I reflect on another trip around the sun, I look back on the good, learn from the challenges to inform the future, and embrace this messy, crazy adventure called life.
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