This Is What 45 Looks Like

Battle scars and disco balls

"Describe this past year in one word," my therapist said.

Without even blinking, I answered: Survived.

She nodded, then asked, “And what would you like next year’s word to be?”

I turned to the window, watched the wind stir the trees like it was rewriting something, and said: Thriving.

Because I’m done clawing my way through every day like it’s a battlefield.

I’ve been in survival mode for years—plural.

Years of dragging myself across burning coals.

But somehow, this past year? I survived it better.

More together.

Even while a beast was throwing a party in my abdomen, and surgical menopause came screeching in like a hormonal banshee.

Even now, with new neuropathy symptoms and yet another specialist joining my medical fan club, I can still say—I survived.

And here’s the twist: I’m not just a walking diagnosis.

Yes, I’ve got a file thick enough to be its own novel, but I also have joy.

Humor.

Love.

My people.

My weirdness.

My sparkle.

I'd never leave my bed if I focused only on the hard stuff. And trust me, there are days when my body says, “Oh honey, we’re not doing vertical today,” and I have no choice but to listen.

But then I get a burst of energy and think I can do all the things.

Yeah.

I can’t.

Reality slaps me back down like, “Nice try.”

So, what do I do?

I pivot.

I adapt.

I evolve.

---

My birthday week thus far is a vast improvement over last year’s disaster kickoff, which featured a vicious flareup and me lying out like a Victorian heroine with bad lighting and no fan.

Yes, I celebrate my birthday for an entire week. Because I’ve fought for every single one of these 45 years. Dammit, I earned that cake, those plants, and every glittery disco ball in between.

Oh, and the boys and I are finally taking a vacation—the first since July 2021, when we took Logan to Savannah for his 21st.

That trip feels like a lifetime ago.

Birthdays hit differently now.

They’re less about cake and more about reflection.

It's more about chipping away at the weight of other people’s opinions and finally saying, “You know what? I don’t care.”

Moving back to Sioux Falls came with pressure.

When you’re far away, people see the curated version of you. But here? Oh, they see it all—grief, growth, stretch marks, sass, and all.

Especially when you're the daughter who came home to help her dying father and didn’t fall apart in front of everyone (just quietly in parking lots and locked bathrooms).

I told my mom she’s now a single mom to a nearly 45-year-old daughter.

She laughed.

But honestly? She’s doing a hell of a job.

This upcoming trip with the boys will be our reset button. Our little bubble of renewal.

And yes, I’ll miss my dad more than I can explain.

He should be here.

Grief is a muscle I use daily, flexed in silence when no one’s watching.

But I’m grateful I can still feel that kind of love.

That kind of missing.

It means something real existed.

When I turned 43, I cried.

Not the quiet, graceful kind of cry—more like the gut-punch, snot-slicked kind that sneaks up on you when you're trying to put on eyeliner and keep it together.

I was getting ready to head over to my parents’ place, knowing in the deepest part of me that this would be my last birthday with my dad.

And that knowledge gutted me.

This was it.

The last birthday card with his wobbly hand-sketched cake and lopsided hearts.

The last “Happy Birthday, Daughter” said in that unmistakable way only he could say it—half teasing, all love.

I can still hear it, his voice etched into the folds of my memory, but playing it on repeat in my head doesn’t feel the same as hearing it in real time.

I soaked in every moment of that day, but part of me stayed shielded—holding my breath, holding it together, because I couldn’t fall apart in front of him. He had enough to carry. So I smiled and laughed and saved my breakdown for later, tucked into a quiet corner like emotional leftovers.

Now May feels like a two-faced month. There’s my birthday, sure—but also his, just days later on the 22nd. The same day, hospice began.

Cue the cosmic gut punch.

This is my second birthday without him, and it still knocks the wind out of me.

Sometimes I say it out loud: “I can’t believe my dad is dead.” The words feel foreign and violent, like they don’t belong in my mouth, but there they are, vibrating all the way to my bones, settling into my marrow. The heaviness shows up uninvited and plants itself in every cell.

I know he’s still with me. I feel him in strange and sacred ways—his love infinite, his presence soft around the edges. But damn, I miss the human things.

The bear hugs.

The sound of “Happy Birthday” in his voice.

The way he'd make a big deal out of the smallest things.

And honestly, it’s just not the same without that crooked little cake sketch.

---

My birthdays as a kid were always special.

There was that pink diary when I turned 8 and hosted a wild slumber party where we totally weren’t supposed to watch Dirty Dancing (oops).

On my 12th birthday, we were moving from Rapid City to Sioux Falls; my parents told me I could have a few friends celebrate and have a hotel party with pizza and pool time.

For 16? No big bash, but flowers and balloons showed up at school, and that meant everything.

My parents weren't perfect, but they showed up when it counted. It was our little family against the world.

And that’s how I parent, too.

The boys and I are a little squad.

Us against the world.

No family is perfect. And if someone claims theirs is, they’re probably hiding a lot or lying boldly.

We don’t owe anyone full access to our stories, our pasts, or our pain. But I will say this: my childhood had its struggles, but when it came to the days that mattered, my parents were present.

And that counts for a lot.

---

I grew up a Gen X girl—raised on contradictions and cassette tapes.

Science and prayer.

Feminism and table manners.

Muddy bike rides and boy band obsessions (NKOTB).

Barbie’s one day, going kamikaze on my bike the next.

A tomboy in mascara.

A storyteller with linebacker shoulders.

An artistic weirdo who never fit in a box—and had zero interest in trying.

Geez, I sound like the end of The Breakfast Club.

I wasn’t dainty. I was loud, opinionated, and chronically underestimated.

I said I wanted to be a teacher and a bestselling author.

Check. And check.

Because dreaming big and showing up loud was my birthright.

I was raised on sarcasm and cinnamon-sugar toast by two people who didn’t have all the answers but loved fiercely.

My dad gave me my wicked wit and my flair for profanity.

My mom gave me organizational girl power with a label maker in one hand and a “don’t start none, won’t be none” attitude in the other, and a sense of justice that doesn’t shut up.

My parents always nurtured my creativity, my independence, and that delightfully inconvenient habit of thinking way outside the box. They didn’t try to tame the wild parts of me—they just handed me art supplies and notebooks. They listened to my stories about ghosts and princesses and watched my impromptu dance performances.

They let me question things.

Challenge things.

They didn’t always understand my brain, but they let it bloom.

It was never about stifling my independence.

Hell no.

I was an only child and a girl—basically a recipe for becoming a proud mouthy woman with a side-eye sharp enough to slice glass.

My parents made sure I carved my own path, but also made it very clear: take no crap, especially from people who try to dim your light or mess with your people.

That combo?

Well, let’s just say it occasionally got me in trouble—usually when I went full ride-or-die defending someone I loved. Or myself. Or, in one glorious case, my dad.

So picture it: late 90s.

I’m working part-time at Heartland Paper Company during high school. My dad’s the regional office manager. Technically not my boss…but also very much my boss. You know how that goes.

Anyway, I’m in the ladies' room, doing my business in a stall, minding my own bladder, when two women walk in and start trash-talking my dad.

Loudly.

Apparently, he was “so mean,” “always on their case,” “unfair,” blah blah blah. Just dragging his name through the toilet air. I sat there, listening like it was an episode of Jerry Springer, letting them dig their little verbal grave.

And then, my moment.

I flushed, opened the stall door, and stepped out like a boss in burgundy velvet Doc Martens. Their jaws hit the floor so hard I think OSHA would’ve called it a workplace hazard.

I smirked.

Washed my hands.

Took my sweet time.

Silence.

Then I dropped it. “You should really check under the stalls next time.”

I walked out like it was a catwalk, and Alanis Morissette was blaring in the background.

Ten minutes later, I was summoned to my dad’s office. The “shut the door” tone?

Yeah, not great. I sat down, fully aware of what this was about, but completely unbothered.

“You can’t say things like that to other employees,” he said.

They deemed me disrespectful.

“What was I supposed to do? Let them talk about you like that? I don’t think so.”

He sighed. “I don’t care what they think, and you shouldn’t either.”

But I did care.

Because it was my Dad.

And if anyone came for him, they would get the full-force wrath of his teenage daughter with a backbone made of glitter, rage, and Dr. Pepper.

I refused to apologize.

He told me to stay away from them.

"Yeah, well, they should stay away from me. And bathrooms."

---

I have grown.

Stretched.

Shrunk.

Crumpled.

Evolved.

I’m salty.

Spite. Loyal. Loving. Sarcastic. Curious.

An overthinker.

A helper. A fighter. A warrior.

I am proud of who I’ve become.

Not in spite of everything, but because of it.

Putting one word on an entire year is like trying to sum up the Grand Canyon with a Post-it. But if I had to?

Yes—I survived.

But I also bloomed.

In places. In cracks. In quiet.

And sure, I wilted in others.

I’ve learned grief isn’t just a moment; it’s a permanent companion. The older we get, the more people we lose. And somehow, our hearts just keep expanding even while breaking.

I miss my dad so deeply that it sometimes feels like a physical wound.

But I carry no regrets.

Just love.

Infinite, stubborn, aching, ridiculous, beautiful love.

And I carry the people I love—those who lift me, cheer me, text me memes when I’m spiraling, and sit beside me in the dark.

So here’s to 45.

Here’s to thriving—even if it’s messy.

Even if it’s mostly joggers and sarcasm.

Because I’m still here.

And that is a miracle.

Skol!