All the years that count

A couple of days ago, on March 17th, I turned 42, a number that feels less like a milestone and more like a mirror. I am not particularly skilled at complex calculations, but in a simple "plus-minus" manner of the heart, I know that 42 is exactly half of 84. Most of my grandparents lived well into their eighties, and looking at that math makes the breath catch in my throat just a little—if I am truly halfway through, or if I have at least another 42 years left to breathe, how exactly do I want to inhabit the time that remains?

I live in an era defined by tectonic shifts and big changes, a witness to the friction of a world constantly remaking itself. My own history is etched with the sharp lines of war, the heavy silence of losing a parent, and the messy, beautiful fractures of many heartbreaks. I have shared my life with people whose personal histories carry more weight and drama than the plot of a Hollywood blockbuster, and perhaps because of that, my own life doesn't look "ordinary" in the eyes of most.

Looking back just five years down the memory lane of my birthdays, the stamps in my passport tell a story of restless seeking: Guatemala, Denmark, Thailand, Turkey, and now Taiwan. I get pretty particular around my birthdays, navigating that delicate, often painful tension between wanting to be free of expectations and the human realization that I pour so much love into celebrating four other human beings that a quiet part of me aches for the same energy in return. I have learned, sometimes the hard way, that people cannot read your mind; your deepest desires and most fragile dreams are yours alone to live and feel the depth of.

No one else will ever be able to see the internal map of your heart exactly the way you imagined it, and acknowledging that truth inevitably leads to a form of disappointment that is actually a gift in disguise. This realization led me to a life-changing decision: I no longer wait to be celebrated; I plan my own birthdays and I curate the celebration of my own existence.

I made this choice four years ago in the humid air of Guatemala, where I asked simply to be free of chores, for people to mind their own business, and for those I love to simply reserve a pocket of time to be with me.

That first intentional birthday, I stumbled into a Mysore yoga class without knowing what it was—sparking a love affair with a practice that deserves its own story entirely—and sat in my favorite coffee shop in Antigua for a long, quiet stretch of time before walking home with a slow, mindful gait. I gave myself a tattoo that day, a permanent mark of my own agency, and met my family at a restaurant I had hand-picked myself.

My dreams became my reality because I stopped leaving them in the hands of others; there was no clash, no disappointment, just a pure celebration of everything I love.

In Denmark, I baked my own cakes; last year in Turkey, I leaped from a mountain in Fethiye to paraglide through the sky and washed away the past in a Turkish bath. In Thailand, I danced barefoot on the sand, the taste of ceremonial cacao still on my tongue as the sun dipped below the horizon. This year, I invited my oldest child to join me on a journey to Chishang, where we cycled with friends, listened to a soul-stirring talk about choosing the "path less traveled," and ended up in a coffee shop that looked like it had been plucked directly from my wildest fantasies. I felt loved and I felt held, not because I waited for it to happen, but because I created the space for it to exist.

But what I am truly trying to say is that it isn't just a birthday that should be lived as one’s dreams; it is life itself that should be lived in this essence. Life should be something that matters, something special and expansive, defined by the way we choose to show up for it.

Not all my days are painted with peaches and butterflies; in fact, most of them are defined by struggle, by the "thick" parts of being human, and by endless questioning. Yet, even in the grit, I feel vibrantly alive because I once decided to change the narrative. I wanted to live aligned with my heart, to keep coming back to myself like a compass needle, practicing the art of living fully and consciously. I am constantly filling my days with small moments of gratitude, and if you think those moments are only the "big" things—the paragliding, the ancient temples, the art installations, or the summits unreachable to most—you would be mistaken.

The most valuable moments I cherish are the simple, unadorned ones: a perfectly brewed cup of coffee, a fleeting second of true connection with a dear one, my child’s small hand inside mine, a hug that lingers, the rhythm of a yoga practice, and the way tears can wash away everything that no longer serves me. I am learning that the most generous gifts are the ones that come freely, born from the pure, startling fact of being alive in this world.

As the poet Mary Oliver once asked, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" I think I finally have my answer: I plan to be the one who chooses it, every single day.