On Tuesday, July 4, 1978, my exceedingly pregnant mother was attending a festive family cookout by the lake.
In a case of hilariously bad timing, just as she was getting settled into the lake’s warm and comfortable water—hers broke.
Apparently, in what would be the first of many terrible decisions I’ve made throughout my life, I decided to make my grand debut a week ahead of schedule.
I’ve always had a suspicion that at this moment Dad looked forlornly down at his freshly assembled plate of potato salad and bellowed a curse that would make a hardened pirate politely suggest he “tone it down,” but this is mere speculation on my part.
It was a full moon, so the hospital was full of women in labor. Only one doctor was on duty due to it being a holiday, so he gave Mom something to make her delay the painful inconvenience of my impending premier, and thus I missed sharing a birthday with the Declaration of Independence by a mere 33 minutes.
On Wednesday, July 5th, 2023, a slightly older me reflects on how blessed, amazing, and surprising life has been so far. Although I’m still trying to figure out exactly what I’m supposed to “be” in this life, I am beginning to suspect maybe that isn’t really the point of the journey. If we’re lucky, we get to “be” many different things to many different people along the way. We get to “be” many different versions of ourselves.
I like to think am a better version of myself today because of the souls I’ve encountered throughout the years. I’ve learned more from each of you than you know; I am eternally grateful for the chance to continue to evolve and grow.
Empathy, turns out, teaches the greatest lessons of all.
It is an honor to take this journey with all of you.
Incidentally, I think I still owe Dad a potato salad.
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