at Twenty-Gr8.

You'll be thankful for the stories.  For the one that comes rushing through the metal doors to show you his report card; less C's, more B's. For the one that wept tears of joy through each song during her favorite singer's concert. For the one that sits at your desk, fidgeting and tall, proud and humble, saying, "I don't like telling people things."

With faded dreams of marching down an aisle or frolicking through the streets of Paris, on my 28th celebration of life I am grateful for the stories that have swept through me. Each person who has been brave enough to share themselves over a cup of coffee, in between a basketball dribble, or side by side on a roller coaster ride. I am thankful for the beauty of humanity that makes each of us struggling little bastards still wake up with the will to fight and be better.

Humans are amazing, aren't they? Always losing. Never good enough. Yet, fearless enough to keep putting that key in the ignition or to stand on the platform, sweat dripping from a brow and mind wandering through endless to do lists.

Today I butchered my birthday cake into twenty imperfect pieces, slopping it onto plates with a fork stuck into its center. I shared with the babies who have put their tiny hearts into my care and forgot to give myself a piece. Often, people will say that I am selfless, but everyday people place their stories onto my lap or on my shoulder. Through whispers, wet tears, and curse words they let me into their narratives and allow me to participate in their lives.

In this year, I want to give back everything that has been given to me: flowers, chocolate, kisses, undeserving kindness and patience, relentless support, and above all, the acceptance of my story. My beautiful unraveling story.

Happy Birthday to me.