I lost my Dad six days after my 35th birthday last year. I lost him three months and fourteen days after my wedding day. I lost him unexpectedly, abruptly, and without a proper goodbye. I lost him in a manner that till this day still feels unjustified. Needless to say, thirty-five was not the glorious year I had imagined. Rather, it was a year I wish I could erase. Thirty-five was a year I buried myself in such sadness that only time and the love and kindness of my husband, my family and my friends freed me. It was a year that forced me to be vulnerable, to let down my shield and let others in. It was a year I stood still and now know that it’s okay, that stillness is not surrendering. It was a year that I, too, died. But the part of me that lives knows now to live more vicariously and to love boundlessly.
To thirty-six, to a new day, to a new year.
Please be gentle to me.