I Have Lived to the Age of Her Death

Thank you for all the sweet birthday wishes.

I love how this year, all of you who are wishing me well I actually know in real life.

Today—5/25/2025, in the year of the Wood Snake—I mark 48 years on this Earth.

I was born on this day in 1977, a Fire Snake year—

a homebirth, frank breech, butt-first into the world,

to a mother who had just turned seventeen.

I came through the threshold backwards—

a fitting beginning for someone who moves through life very differently from the rest of the world.

This birthday carries a quiet weight.

I am now the age my mother was when she passed.

I truly never knew or thought I would live this long…

and yet, here I am.

At least for now.

And something has shifted.

For the first time in my life, I can see a future that feels like mine.

Not just survival,

but something beautiful I’m choosing.

I see the dream—and it includes me.

I see what I desire.

I see what I’m ready to share with the world.

And I see what I need—what I’m welcoming in.

All of which feels vulnerable.

This moment, like so many, is a powerful threshold.

I’m slowly arriving—inside myself, and here in Boulder.

I’ve landed,

but it’s taken time to truly arrive.

The field around me is still forming—

a home, a temple, a place for my work to root and rise.

I can feel it coming closer.

When it arrives, it will be a space not just for me,

but for others to come and create, to receive, to remember—

to play and deepen inside their medicine.

I’m working on three books—two of which are woven with the larger vision for the future—

and a series of short stories I’m still wondering how I’ll share.

They’re part of something that’s revealing itself slowly, through breath and trust.

This is the first time I’ve truly been able to imagine a future.

I’ve often lived inside the now—

with only glimpses of possibility.

But now the vision is landing.

And I am, too.

In the meantime, I’m celebrating this birthday at the hot springs—

soaking in the waters, listening to the wild,

resting in my car while the storm rolls through:

rain on the roof, wind in the trees,

and a bald eagle flying past as if on cue.

The silence is holy.

Thank you for walking with me.