Age Is Just A Number

When I was a little girl, my mom was my whole world. I never thought I would love anyone as much as I loved her. She was the woman who brought me into this life—and, maybe, the one who could take me out of it. If you know her, you know exactly what I mean.

She has this presence, this power, that can make you feel like the biggest, most important person in the world—or like you’ve shrunk into yourself. Sometimes, I wonder if she even realizes the effect she has.

I remember when she turned 28. I was six, and to me, she was living her best life—new boyfriend, not always making the bills on time, but I didn’t see that side yet. I only saw how happy she was to be alive, how excited she was about what life could offer her. She would talk to me about everything she wanted for my future, and I remember thinking that if I could have what she had, I would be happy.

When my godmother turned thirty, my mom poked fun at her for hitting that milestone first—even though they were only two months apart in age. That moment has echoed through my life. I do the same with my best friend, and next year, when she turns 30, I know I’ll do it again.

But I also remember the birthday when my mom wasn’t happy. I didn’t understand why she was upset at the time, but now, as an adult, I get it. She wasn’t where she thought she was supposed to be. She wasn’t who she thought she would be. And that realization is a hard one to sit with.

Even if she felt then—or even now—that her unhappiness was because of her kids, I know that wasn’t the case. When you wake up one day and realize your life doesn’t look the way you thought it would, it’s jarring. It’s not something you can just shake off.

I grew up believing that you have to fight tooth and nail for everything in life, but now I don’t think that’s entirely true. Some people do have to fight harder—because of racial injustice, gender discrimination, or the massive imbalance of wealth and opportunity. And some people barely have to fight at all.

I know that some things will always be difficult for me. But I also know I’ve been incredibly lucky—the opportunities I’ve had, the tragedies I’ve avoided by sheer chance. If I had left that night. If I had pulled into that intersection just two seconds slower…

I’ve felt what my mother felt on that birthday. I woke up at 23 and wondered why I wasn’t married yet. I woke up at 26, unemployed and full of cancer. I’ve faced those moments, those milestones that didn’t look the way I thought they would.

But I also know that we each have our own path. Our own way forward. And I am moving forward.

When I turned 18, my mom turned 40 just a few months later. I threw her the best party I could at our house on Nome Street, the place we had lived for a decade by then. We had family over, we laughed, and I have pictures that remind me how silly and full of light she can be.

I think, at some point, the number stops mattering, and life becomes fun again. Over the years, I’ve seen my mom slowly start to embrace that.

I was worried about 50. I thought I would have to force her to enjoy herself, to remind her that life is beautiful and heartbreaking and exciting and scary all at once. I thought I would have to throw a huge, grand party to pull her out of herself.

But I didn’t.

This year, when she turned 50, I was able to buy her lunch—something I haven’t been able to afford in a long time. I was able to get her favorite cake. And I was able to give her the best gift I have ever given her. A gift that cost me everything—money, heartache, blood, tears, time, and fear.

I gave her the news that I am in remission.

Three days before her birthday. On Valentine’s Day.

Her face, her hug, said everything I needed it to. Everyone in that room was celebrating—the weight of so many years lifted, even just for a moment.

My grandma in her 60s, my uncle in his 40s, my aunt in her 30s, me in my 20s, my cousin and brother in their teens. All of us, together, sharing the best news we could have been given.

I remember when I was six, and my mom turned 28—full of sunshine and smiles.
I remember when I was eight, and she turned 30—beautiful and annoyed.
I remember when I was 18, and she turned 40—tired and sad, but still carrying that spark.
And now, at 28, I watched my mother turn 50—with tears in her eyes, but for the first time in a long time, they were tears of joy.