Somewhere along the way, birthdays stopped being about candles and started being about perspective. Not the emotional kind where you cry over cake. The grounded kind where you sip coffee, look around your life, and think, well… this escalated nicely.

I’ve learned to like birthdays. Not because they’re magical. But because they force a pause. And pauses matter when your life has never followed a straight line. Or a sensible one.

Looking back feels like scrolling through your camera roll without filters. Bad angles. Blurry memories. A few decisions that made perfect sense for exactly five minutes. But also proof. Proof that I showed up. That I lived. That I didn’t choose the boring option, even when it would have been easier.

Beauty, I’ve learned, rarely shows up polished. It shows up cracked. And I’ve collected plenty of those.

The Girl With a Plan (And Too Much Confidence)

People love asking what you’d tell your younger self. Mine would probably interrupt me halfway through and say she already knows. She was that kind of teenager. Confident. Opinionated. Slightly exhausting.

She did know God. She believed. She prayed. Faith was simple back then — sincere, uncomplicated, still untouched by disappointment. She believed strength meant control. That faith meant certainty. That hard work guaranteed clarity. She had a plan, and God was welcome to participate as long as life stayed reasonable.

I wouldn’t tell her to calm down. Or behave. I’d tell her to keep walking. To hold on when faith stops feeling safe. To use the Bible as a light when the road gets confusing, not just when it’s comfortable. And when things fall apart — when the wrong voices get loud, when the crowd pulls hard, when she feels lost — not to panic. She’s not failing. She’s not abandoned. She’s more loved than she realizes, even when she’s busy testing every boundary.

She wouldn’t believe me. That’s fine. I didn’t either.

From Boardrooms to Backpacks

At one point, my life looked impressive on paper. Businesswoman. Structure. Stability. The kind of life people nod approvingly at — the one that looks right on paper and makes everyone breathe a little easier

But of course, I didn’t listen.

Instead, I kept saying yes to contrast. To lives that didn’t match. To chapters that shouldn’t belong in the same book. I’ve traveled alone and with friends. With family and with strangers who didn’t stay strangers for long. I’ve done luxury and I’ve done simple. I’ve slept comfortably and I’ve slept creatively.

I’ve been out in the desert on a horse, dust everywhere, silence so loud it teaches you things. I’ve been deep in the ocean, eye to eye with sharks, realizing fear and awe sometimes feel exactly the same. I’ve learned that joy doesn’t care much about the setting. It shows up wherever you’re paying attention.

Some seasons were polished. Some were stripped down. All of them mattered.

What I’m grateful for isn’t one version of life over another. It’s the fact that I got to live all of it. The movement. The stillness. The comfort. The stretch. The laughter in unfamiliar places and the quiet moments that rearranged me.

Those contrasts shaped me. And I wouldn’t trade a single one.

When Faith Went Quiet

Here’s the part that doesn’t photograph well.

Faith didn’t slowly fade. It fractured. There was a moment when I was tired of trying, tired of trusting, tired of holding it together—and I told God exactly that. Loudly. Without elegance. Without filters.

I didn’t walk away gracefully. I quit in frustration, convinced I was done.

What surprised me wasn’t the breaking. It was what followed.

Life kept moving—joy and grief, belonging and loneliness, control slipping through my fingers. And the God I thought I had walked away from didn’t disappear. He didn’t argue. He didn’t chase. He simply stayed.

He didn’t give up on me, even when I gave up.

Not dramatic. Not offended. Just there.

Finding Grace in Unexpected Places

Coming back wasn’t a moment. It was a direction. A slow turning of the heart. Less certainty. More honesty. Less performance. More surrender.

Church stopped being a building and became people. The kind who pray like it matters and laugh like healing. Friends showed up who didn’t need me polished. Family stayed steady, like roots tend to do.

And then there were dogs. Because of course God would use dogs. A short season with Canines for Christ reminded me that God often teaches compassion through small, ordinary moments.

Counting What I Could Never Earn

Lately, there’s a song that keeps running through my head. It talks about counting blessings and running out of numbers. About looking back and realizing you could never add it all up anyway.

And that’s exactly how this season feels.

The more I look back, the more I see goodness hiding in the details. Moments I rushed through. Lessons I resisted. Grace I didn’t recognize until later. God working while I was busy assuming I was on my own.

I was lost. God wasn’t.
I wandered. God walked with me anyway.
I doubted. God stayed.

Not because I deserved it, but because grace doesn’t depend on deserving.

Where I Am Now

So here I am. Another year older. Still curious. Still learning. Maybe less dramatic and more grounded?

I don’t need big celebrations. Coffee with a friend is enough. Peace is enough. I no longer feel the need to disappear on my birthday. That feels like growth.

I’m grateful for a life that feels lived. For fights I didn’t avoid. For detours that taught me more than the plan ever could. And for God whose grace kept showing up—through the cracks, through the mess, through the years I couldn’t see it for what it was.

I don’t know what this next year holds. I don’t know the twists or challenges waiting ahead. But I know who walks with me into it. And that changes everything.

If you’re reading this from your own cracked, complicated, hopeful place, hear this: grace isn’t an idea. It’s a presence. A steady companion on roads that don’t make sense yet.

If God stayed with me—curious, stubborn, human, and wildly undeserving—He’ll stay with you too.

Happy birthday to me.