23. It’s how old chimpanzee expert Jane Goodall was when she traveled to Tanzania to study primates, the first year of 55 spent in the Gombe Stream National Park. It’s how old author Joan Didion was when she worked as a copywriter at Vogue, the start of an illustrious writing career. It’s how old Orson Welles was when he produced and performed “War of the Worlds” on broadcast radio. It’s how old my mother was when rebuilding her life from an abusive first marriage with baby in arms.
Of all the great things I could have accomplished by my 23rd birthday set by some arbitrary standards of success, the one that moves me most (perhaps I’m biased) is the last one. I don’t say that to discredit the successes of others, simply to say that sometimes the most successful thing we can do is manage to stay afloat in stormy waters. A small victory is a victory nonetheless.
I’ve experienced my own small victories, and I treasure them. Hounding the editor-in-chief of a community newspaper for a position until he relented and gave me a chance is a small victory, one I might proudly boast, he has not regretted. Then there are the small victories my husband and I make every day in our marriage; to be trustworthy, patient, forgiving, loving, and dependable. The small victory of paying off one credit card at a time. The victory of finding and choosing joy in sunrises, little brother kisses, and Planet Earth Netflix binges amid torrents of collective misery in our society.
These are small. But they are mine. And I choose to seem them as steps to a grander victory, whatever that may be.
In adding to my list of small victories, this year and every year after, I will celebrate.
23 can be a magical age. It can be a hard one. Whichever one it is though, it’s another year.
For the last handful of years, my birthday hasn’t been a big deal (except for a weekend long celebration at Disney a couple years ago. That was incredible!). I’ve treated myself to splurges at bookstores, used it as an excuse to get my way, and ate ice cream. All in all, pretty good birthdays, but they were just another day really. Plus ice cream.
2015 started out rough. My uncles, my dad’s brother and my mom’s brother, both passed away within two weeks of one another in January. It was hard.
My plans for making this year “my year” (whatever that means) were promptly thrown out the window in the face of grief. It took some time to pull myself together, and even now I can’t say confidently that there isn’t sorrow that threatens to deluge my heart on certain days. But I’m better. My family is better. Life is better. Life can be good.
I think that’s why this year’s birthday I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to really celebrate. I want to make memories and be with family and friends. So often we think of celebrating birthdays as something we do for children or adults in arrested development, because sane adults stopped celebrating birthdays at 21. After that we’re supposed to be suddenly ashamed of our age. Seeing my uncle Henry’s declining health and the swift death that tragically took my uncle Albert created more than pain, it created a moment of clarity.
Wrinkles are luxuries. How can I, in good conscience, take for granted or feel ashamed at growing older when so many are robbed of it? We celebrate a child’s birth to commemorate another milestone in their expanding life, so why not do the same for ourselves? I’m eternally grateful to spend another year with my loved ones, with opportunities and hope. I may not have landed on Time Magazine’s front cover yet, but I’m not too concerned. I figure I have a lot more birthdays to keep at it.
When my uncle Henry laid in bed, fearful and doubtful that his cancer would be cured my mom would hold his hand and say “Donde hay vida, hay esperanza” which means “where there is life, there is hope.” I have my life, my family and friends, I have hope for the future, and I have another completed year to celebrate - so that’s exactly what I’ll do.