A Short Story: Reflections on Birthdays and Becoming

The sun hit the glass this morning with a confetti halloo and a bounce of excitement. Ok. Maybe it was me who had the bounce of excitement, but the sun seemed to share it. It’s my birthday after all. While our relationships with age and aging can be volatile and varied, I have always loved my birthday. Ever since my fifth birthday. Maybe ever since my parents named me Phoebe the minute I’d wailed my way into the world.

After I sent my husband out the door with a kiss, and after I gathered grubby dishes left from last night, and after I swooped all the shoes at the back door into a pile with a sweep of my foot, I collected my journal and Zebra pen and beelined it for my overstuffed chair. 

I looped the date in the top right corner of the blank page.
I mused back over my fifty-four years. The good, the bad, the beautiful.

Blank ink formed letters and words as I shaped them into a poem.

“Years and birthdays are an ethereal cocktail of snail space and lightwarp…
a complexity of curiosity and a grappling with growth…
a celebration and a re-evaluation…
they are loss and love and laughter…
refining, defining, confining….
gratefulness and expectation…
a wishing for what’s to be…
a wishing for what could have been/might have been…
settling and unsettling…
disappointment and delight…
for every good day and everything in between…
Living and learning…
discovering and discerning…
Another revolution run.”

With a click, I placed my pen beside me; lingered with the letters on my journal page. Re-read them and then let them sound from my voice as I slowly read my poem aloud to a captive audience consisting of my fiddleleaf, two prayer plants, peperomia, zz plant, philodendron, one hardy aloe vera, and an assortment of violets with their bright faces beaming expectantly. 

I felt happy. It was a good day. I watched the sun send new sparkles across my window. I had fifteen minutes before I’d head out the door to Fresh From the Press for coffee with Janelle.  I could already picture it. I usually arrived about three minutes before she did. I’d order my dirty chai; claim our favorite teal wingbacks providing no one had beat us to them. Janelle would arrive. Her presence alone was a sunshine confetti halloo and she almost always carried a bounce of excitement in her step. Her signature silk scarf looped around her long, dark ponytail and her leather bag tossed carelessly on her shoulder are sneak peeks into who she is as a human. She’ll greet the barista, order her cherry mocha latte, then throw her arms around me as if we’d parted ways months before rather than the actuality that we’d had pizza together on Wednesday. We’d met about fifteen years ago and our friendship was a fit from the very first conversation.

The clock shows it’s almost time to leave and I head back to the pile of shoes to sort out my favorite sandals. I bid my plant audience adieu and swing the door shut behind me. “See you in a couple hours!” I say to Clarence who’s lazily lolling in a patch of sunshine confetti. He nuzzles his nose into my palm and sniffs as if to say, “Have a lovely morning!” 

It’s a short drive to Fresh From the Press. Inside, I go through the steps from my imagination in real-time. “Happy birthday, friend!” Janelle beams. She’s laden with a large box wrapped in floral watercolor paper. We curl into our chairs, hands curled around mugs, and two hours dissolve away.

I open the door on my Toyota Camry, wave again at Janelle, and place the gift on my backseat. I’d ripped off the floral paper to reveal that somehow Janelle had managed to Tetris together three books, a bag of Kit-Kats, an Audible giftcard, a Fresh From the Press gift card, a Chick-fil-a giftcard, a lemon-lavendar candle, and the creamy sweater she’d seen me eyeing last month. I emerge from the car’s interior. I can’t help it. “It was an absolutely delightful morning, my friend!” I call it across the parking lot just before Janelle reaches for the door handle on her Subaru. She spins. Throws her arms wide, grins wider. “Agreed! Agreed! Couldn’t agree more!”

I slip into my driver’s seat. Start the engine. Crank the air conditioner up a couple of notches. 

While I was enjoying my dirty chai and conversation with Janelle, my phone has delivered various and sundry greetings to me of the happy birthday and celebration and grateful-for-you kind. They make me smile. I scroll down. Reply with thank-you GIFs to a few.

Yesterday I’d made a brisk walk to the mailbox with a couple of paid bills to flop inside and flip the flag up to notify the mail carrier of impending envelopes. I’d popped the door open and lo-and-behold, Friday’s mail had already been delivered. I’d paid little attention to the time when I pulled my sandal straps tight and traipsed out the back door. Clarence’s tail appears  behind the geraniums by the box. He’s sniffing in all-out earnest. I’d grabbed the bundle, flipped past a flyer and another bill; noted four bright envelopes. For a minute I was surprised. Why so much fun mail? Then I remembered. Why yes! It’s my birthday eve. Buried toward the back of the mailbox a brown box awaited. Good birthday timing too. It holds a pair of bone conduction headphones I’ve been wanting to try. I’ve ordered them for my husband to give to me. 

Clutching envelopes, flyer, box, and bill, I cluck to Clarence and we retrace our steps. 

At my kitchen island, I’d torn open the envelopes in a ragged, uneven array. A delightful card from my mother. A lovely handmade card from my neighbor. I adore seeing her creations. A hilarious card from a friend who I love to laugh with. A deeply thoughtful card and coffee gift card from my mother-in-law. Delightfulness for the day! 

My dear husband had whispered happy birthday to me this morning before we hardly opened our eyes and last evening found us celebrating at a favorite Italian restaurant of mine.

I pause and ponder.

I think about how my life has lovely and good and amazing people in it. My morning celebration and conversation with Janelle. Cards and texts. Affirmations and love. A bookmark gift earlier in the week. 

Clarise had arranged the loveliest bouquet of flowers grown from her wildflower garden. While I was out yesterday morning, my daughter has hidden twenty notes throughout my space for me to find in the next weeks.

So why is there still such a large part of my brain that shows up skeptical? I feel continuously confused and surprised as to why any of these people aside from my mother and daughter might actually mean the words of love they offer me. I feel the need to look over my shoulder to find who they’re actually speaking to.

For the life of me, I can’t find what it is of value I have to offer anyone. 

I resist being celebrated.

I have to laugh a little. What a train of thought for me to board on my birthday. Yet, it also makes sense. Another year ahead. Another year behind. To sit with reflections on who I have been, who I have become, and who I am in the process of becoming.

My insecurities have always lived loud and large. Louder and larger than I’ve ever liked. I’ve often wished I was much better at not allowing them entrance. 

But here we are. I hit the button on the side of my phone and the screen morphs to black. Placing it in its holder, I shift into drive and begin the automatic route toward home. “Phoebe,” I ask myself, “Why do you resist being celebrated?”

I seldom feel safe to truly show up as myself. There are few spaces which offer this kind of invitation.

“And that’s the thing,” I think.

Unfortunately, I know I’m not alone. Our human experience too often serves up debilitating and discombobulating circumstances to us.

I reflect on a recent experience. My husband and I are out to dinner with another couple. They’ve asked me a question. I begin to answer. I start to share at a bit deeper level.
Apparently, my words run a bit too long. 

Right there, in the midst of our pulled pork and cornbread, coleslaw and steak fries, right there in the middle of my reply, Jim turns to Kalli and asks a question about her entree. 

Nonplussed, I pause midsentence.
It’s an odd, yet obvious, dismissal. 

 Bewilderment billowed through my body. Am I truly this boring? What do I do? Who am I talking to? My husband already knows what I’m saying so I’m not saying it to him. Jim and Kalli have indicated no further interest, so I’m no longer saying it to them. 

I quit talking. They don’t notice. No one picks up where I’ve paused and asks me to continue.
While I never finished the answer to their question, I had a long lingering question of mine answered. This was why I dreaded invitations from them. This was why I could never find connecting points with them. This is why this relationship drained me. Lack of substance. Lack of listening. Lack of truly seeing who I am. It was beginning to dawn on me that they desired a relationship for what it provided them rather than truly valuing the person I am. The relationship was about their conversation, their lives, their topics of interest. No wonder it always felt like a waste of time for me. No wonder I came away upset, angry, or in tears every single time. My brain begins to taunt. “Oh, what everything needs to be about you?” This time I resist. “No. Everything doesn’t need to be about me. But if I’m going to value myself, there has to be some care and consideration and connection or there is nothing to carry the relationship.”
When I am able to name that this relationship weighs at about 85/15, I am able to name the futility and lack of true friendship. This isn’t to paint it as purposeful on their part. It isn’t to portray them as unpleasant people. But it is a naming that this is not a space for me. Perhaps my absence will open an opportunity for someone else who can actually thrive in this relationship.
Another part of my brain sits in astonishment. Why has it taken me so long to name this? Why have I allowed myself to stay in this place that always leaves me feeling so much less than valued? I know it’s complicated. I am aware there are multiple reasons why. Is some of it tied to another harmful season in my life? Yet, am I really this slow of a learner?

I tap Spotify on my Camry radio screen, tap again for my favorite playlist. Music fills the space around me and my mind lands on the paragraph in my current read, the novel Kinfolk. Sean Dietrich writes “A human being spends most of his or her life hiding behind things, hiding behind their own words, pretending to feel ways they don’t really feel, trying to convince themselves that everything is okay. But if you want to know what’s truly on someone’s mind, what’s eating them inside you pay attention to what they sing about. The truth always comes out in music.”

I let the music speak for me and I think about how it used to come easier to me. Believing I was valuable. Accepting kind words on birthday cards. Innocence and a bit of naivety were leading actors in my story then.

Now, I’m leery. Silently questioning. Distrustful.

Trauma is a defeating thing.

I’ve walked through the deterioration of a relationship. A person who I thought was a friend. A person who I credited with more self-awareness than they deserved. A person who I believed to be graceful and kind. A person I believed to be invested in a New Testament Jesus. A person who eventually accused me of playing games, who refused to dialogue, who would say please forgive me but never actually apologize or own any accountability, who said some of the most hurtful things to me anyone ever has, who was spiritually abusive, manipulative, and in hindsight coupled with growth and discernment, was falsely sugar sweet in an over-the-top inauthentic way. 

I think about the life-saving space Clarise and Anya offered me during those days. The wisdom they’d bestowed. The sessions with a therapist named Jennifer. The grace of good people and safe spaces began to slowly grow healing in me. Their presence revealed to me how hurtful and harmful it all was. They provided space for me to name the truth. 

 Trauma shapes us and wariness serves as my bodyguard. My brain continues to send warning signals and remind me “that I play games” and “I’m boring” and “there isn’t space for me to be me.” There’s a soundtrack repeatedly urging me not to forget that friends are seldom for real and people will send me sickeningly sweet texts that are really veiled threats with a few God-told-mes thrown in. Who can argue with God-told-me?
Even after fifteen years, my orange-wild-haired-frantic-eyed-protective portion of my brain nudges me to remember that this friendship with Janelle likely won’t last. 

My brain also likes to run on the track that tells me I’m not allowed boundaries. Oh, it’s not so bold to say it out-and-out like that, but that’s the veiled meaning. A “good Christian” suffers. A “good Christian” always says yes. A “good Christian” is unselfish and always puts everyone else’s needs first. A good Christian turns the other cheek {unless it’s politics and then we can throw everything out the window.} A “good Christian” doesn’t have needs. A “good Christian woman” is quiet and submissive and buries her opinions. It’s a narrative that only ends as harmful.

I think of how I used to consider myself an optimist. Given to looking for the good.

But time and trauma have erased much of that girl from the page. She’s been redrawn by cynicism and pessimism and a protective armor.

I note the sadness deep in me. It runs through my body and it grieves for the young woman contained inside the earlier nesting doll of me. It grieves for dreams that died. It grieves for innocent authenticity that’s fallen into cynical bitterness. It grieves for wasted years stuck in circles I never wanted. It grieves for the community I desired not existing in my own actual neighborhood. It grieves for all the chaos and clatter that have careened across my introverted self and soul.

I also carry a resiliency that runs in my bones. It clutches wildflowers and cheers loudly for every single day I showed up anyway. It finds the smattering of applause and amps it up for the tenacity to take a chance and text to see if, by chance, she would like to meet for coffee. It swing dances and Irish jigs for every day I chased delight and pushed back against the darkness.  

 The actual truth is I don’t feel worthy of belonging. It’s easier to believe the voices in my brain. Besides, they’ve rehearsed for years. This, THIS is why it’s so much easier to believe the one bad apple “friend” who reiterates all I know and fear and already believe is true rather than sink into the engulfing warmth of tried-and-true friends and family. .

My brain likes to remind me that if anyone actually knows me they’ll reject me. They too, will turn to ask a question about an entree, find ingredients much more interesting than the words I am in the process of sharing. They too will laugh when I use the term wastebasket the same way a group of ten-year-old girls did in 1980. Wasn’t my lack of popularity pretty well underscored by the much cooler group of girls in my high school? My limited style couldn’t quite cut to their trendy. Inathleticism and awkwardness didn’t help either.

I turn the car off on my driveway. Sit for a minute. Clarence is in the shade, watching, tail wagging. I smile at his puppy presence. As soon as I open the door, he clambers to his feet and bounds across the lawn. I kneel and hug his neck. His effusive greeting makes me giggle. He’s good therapy with tail, tongue, and tried-and-true enthusiasm. “Let me get my gift out,” I tell Clarence. He lingers expectantly as I pull the large box from the backseat. We wend our way up the curved sidewalk and I feel for the knob, turn it to gain entrance, tripping just a bit on the doorjamb. I deposit the box onto the counter next to the stack of folded bathtowels. I catch my own eye in the oval mirror centered above the copper sink. 

I sigh. Reflection and becoming are both bittersweet. This is me. This is some of what has shaped me. I can’t deny it. I don’t delight in all of it. I wish I could change some plotlines. I wish I could understand some of the whys. 

I know growth comes after dormancy. Character qualities develop from the devastating days. Empathy emerges. Strength to stand on my own two feet and to stand up for myself sprouts. Discernment roots down deeper.  

Would I have ever met Janelle if my resiliency hadn’t sent the text? Even though my insecurities are still insufferably loud, chasing delight has sparked so many happy moment spots. I could name the endurance and endearment of friendships who had proved true and steady through long years. Friends who didn’t need to make me agree or view it their way. Friends who were interested in growth and truth. Friends who listened long, offered space, didn’t interrupt, showed real interest.

Brushing back a stray strand, I smile at the woman in the mirror. Me. “I know you thought life would be easier,” I say, “I know you didn’t expect the insecurities to stay so loud and hang around so very long. But you only knew what you knew. You still only know what you know right now. Today. Fifty-four years of embodied human living. Remember, imposter syndrome packs to stay and never intends to go away. Celebrate today! Celebrate tomorrow. Delight in your life. Delight in the details. Delight in you, Phoebe.”

I rummage in an upper cupboard for a Dreambone. Clarence waits patiently at the door I’ve left hanging open. I kneel down and ruffle his ears, hand him the bone. He takes it gently, albeit eagerly. “Ah, Clarence, you’re a friend indeed.” He drops the bone on the backstep and returns to nuzzle my hand. “I’m just a middle-aged woman rambling on,” I tell him. I pull the door shut and sit down on the step. Clarence snags the bone, curls at my feet, chews delightedly. I rest my chin on my hand and watch the sunshine confetti through the maple leaves and across the canvas of green grass.