This weekend, I turned 22. The actual number holds little significance, but developmentally speaking, my bones are apparently at their peak mineral density.
I told myself I wasn’t a birthday person until I realized birthdays are an inherent benchmark for reflection. I am an innately reflective person, so this is the greatest gift of all.
On my 21st birthday, I strained in an effort to construct the perfect day. The moments I spent alone plagued me, the day wasting away as I tried to gather the pieces of what a birthday “should” be.
One friend was already 21, so I went out with her. I borrowed her vest as the November chill set in, the vodka cranberry a foreign taste on my virgin lips.
In hindsight, my dissatisfaction with the day resulted from my inability to expand outside of the limited prospects that felt comfortable.
How things have changed.
This chapter was unlike any other. I truly feel it was my best celestial orbit yet.
This year permitted very few moments of pause, but now, I have a chance to reflect. In those limited pauses I hungered for air, breathing deeper than ever before.
I spent previous years expecting my body to sustain itself solely on air. The beginning of college marked a release from the chokehold of a restrictive eating disorder. Now, I have confidence in my complete freedom from it and recovery allows me to fully participate in this life.
I’ll relive this last year and attempt to document its events.
Last December through February, nights out replaced sleep as I acclimated to bright lights and the taste of liquor. Snow coated the worn-out boots I decided were strictly bar shoes.
In March, I watched my hometown best friend as she fell in love, while we Irish danced at the Starry Plough Pub in Berkeley, California. I cried while flying back to the East Coast. Her safety and security evoked an unprecedented happiness.
I jittered with anticipation throughout the spring. Each call with my grandfather threatened a farewell. I made summer plans that would catapult me out of my comfort zone, just what I needed.
The last call happened in early June, my heart cloaked with grief while something new tugged at its strings. I donned the armour of the eldest child to support my father, aware of the impossible weight of a cancer diagnosis and the loss of his father.
My grandfather’s memorial marked the end of his fulfilling lifetime, the room singing in an eerie, surreal unison as we honored him.
Grief heavy in our bodies, my little brother came with me back to Burlington. This was a three-day visit we’d kept in our calendars for months. The kayaking and biking adventures solidified the unshakable bond we have, its timing slightly cosmic.
We biked South Hero, the freedom resembling our countless days biking around as kids. Those few nights stretched into the witching hours. As my brother slept at my house, I left with my beach blanket in hand and my heart racing.
Before I knew it, I was on my trip to visit two friends studying in Italy. I embraced my lack of planning – awakening each day to the bells of the Duomo and letting my feet guide my friend and I all over Florence. After an unintentional hitchhiking journey, I met up with a friend in Perugia.
July passed in Burlington and my heart fluttered with feelings I never expected would be my own. I felt joy in the moments and my time with this new person, laced with the pang of doubt that they wouldn’t last.
In August, the goodbye to summer and all held within it threatened to suffocate me. I visited my family in Corfu, jumping into the Ionian Sea and praying it might give me solace. My cousin’s wisdom and certainty began to rub off on me, the emotions of summer didn’t have to end.
August ended with the cessation of my summer relationship. The initial crying short-circuited my sinuses, leaving my nose distrustful and running consistently. I can’t say his severing blinded me though.
Time continued. September was filled with activities that patched up my heart. The weeks stung until I couldn’t remember if it had been five or six.
In late September, my dad and brother visited. An accidental popped tire prohibited them from leaving. My brother opted to sleep at my house rather than at the hotel with my dad.
My eldest child armour didn’t rest for long as I drove the two of us to meet my father, a tearful FaceTime leaving us alarmed.
My brother and I ran through the DoubleTree, embracing our father. Something larger than us was remedied that night.
October started with a yoga retreat. Those two frigid sunrises silenced me when I couldn’t be quiet, energy and attentiveness coursing in my stomach and hips.
That brings me to now: November.
I celebrated this birthday in Montreal, the plans unfolding mere weeks before. Nothing about it was forced.
This column essentially wrote itself, this outline supplying only this past year’s backbone. I didn’t even get to elaborate on my elderly friend Frances from Perugia.
Despite the undertones of grief, I can’t hold anything but gratitude for this past year. Though overwhelm sometimes hung over me, I am astonished at all this year provided me.
Now another birthday has passed. I wait with little patience to experience all this next chapter brings.
I also still have my friend’s vest. I should probably give that back now.
Until next time, Olivia.
