Hey Soul,
Happy Birthday.
43 years ago today you slipped into this world at 5:36am—quiet, soft, like the opening note of a song you didn’t know you’d been humming your whole life.
And now here you are. 43 years in.
The kids are older now. They don’t need you in the same way.
There’s more space. More quiet.
More… you.
The start of some big shifts has begun. The final school year. The last teen at home. The end of “Mom,” as you’ve known her. A quiet closing of a chapter that raised you, too.
And with them the start of some big firsts. The kind of quiet you used to crave. Work that flows instead of fights. And a soft pull to finally ask—what do I need now? Who am I now? What do I want to do? Where do I want to go?
As you close out this cycle—this year, personally and universally—you can feel something asking to be completed. Not erased. Not dismissed. Just… released.
So something new can have space to rise.
Today is Day One of your 44th year.
And I think I finally know what I want this year to be about.
I want to get really, really good at being us.
No deadline. No checklist. No pressure to perform. No comparing or stacking yourself up against what’s expected.
Just… becoming really good at being me. One week at a time.
I want to explore these numbers we’ve been learning about—not just know them, but live them. Let them lead me back to the spark I’ve always felt inside but haven’t fully trusted.
I want to do the little things that make me smile and feel like, “F*ck yes, this is MY life”—even if it’s just snuggling with Mika, creating something just because, or watching the light move across the kitchen wall.
I want to keep learning French, even if it’s just a few words a day, because it lights something in me up.
I want to say out loud the things I love, and get curious about why I love them so much.
I want to plan the move—you know the one. The one that keeps tugging at your heart like a place you’ve already known.
I want to build a life that feels like a reflection of who I truly am.
And I want to have honest, open conversations with myself every week—like I would with a best friend. No fluff. No faking it. Not coaching. Not therapy. Just… the truest, realest form of self-knowing.
Because no one knows my heart like I do. No one hears my inner voice like I do.
And maybe, just maybe, this is the year I’ll finally live with the love I’ve always been—fully, unconditionally.
This week, I want to start by doing something I’ve never really done. Not like this anyway.
I want to sit with all the women I’ve been. Not rush past them. Not flinch. But really sit with them.
There are versions of me I’ve tried to forget. Ones I judged, misunderstood, or silently shamed. There are others I’ve longed to become again. But all of them… are me.
And the more I learn about myself—through these numbers, these shifts, this deeper listening—the more I realize I’ve never really seen them clearly.
Because I wasn’t looking through the right lens.
Where I once saw weakness… I now see survival. Where I once felt shame, I now see strength. Where I once wanted to erase, I now want to honor.
Those women were never wrong. They were never failures. They were chapters. Teachers. They were me, doing the best she could with what she had and what she knew.
Make peace
With all the women
You once were.Lay flowers
At their feet.Offer them incense
And honey
And forgiveness.Honor them
And give them
Your silence.Listen.
Bless them
And let them be.For they are the bones
Of the temple
You sit in now.For they are
The rivers
Of wisdom
Leading you toward
The sea.— “A Thousand Different Women,” Emory Hall
And maybe today, when I look at my reflection in the mirror, I’ll pause.
Not to judge or fix or rearrange—but just to see.
To notice the light in my own eyes.
Because eyes reflect light. And my light… is my soul. That spark that’s been here the whole time, quietly burning beneath the noise.
Maybe this year, I’ll finally begin to recognize the soul being reflected back.
Because for so long, I’ve only seen myself through the lens of how others might see me. Shaped by their opinions, projections, perceptions.
But they aren’t looking through my eyes. They don’t carry my memories. They don’t feel the quiet stirrings I’ve started to feel again. Only I do.
And that feeling… that whisper I’ve been hearing lately? It’s real. It’s time.
Happy birthday, beautiful soul.
This year, may you trust your spark, follow your rhythm,
and let those women gently guide you toward the sea—
where your soul has always been waiting.
I’ll check in next week to see what you’ve discovered—and what you need next.
Toujours là.
Ang