53 Under The Harvest Mood

I turn 53 on Saturday.

And apparently, the moon decided to show up for my birthday too.

Not just any moon. A full Harvest Moon.

I smiled when I learned that. Because if I had been asked to choose a moon to mark the ending of my 52nd year and the beginning of my 53rd, I don't think I could have chosen one more fitting.

The Harvest Moon has always been associated with gathering bringing in what has grown, taking stock of what the season produced, and collecting what is worth carrying forward.

And baby, 52 gave me a harvest.

Not all of it was sweet.

Some things grew beautifully. Some things died. Some things I watered far longer than I probably should have. Some things surprised me by growing back after I was certain the roots were gone.

And some things had to be left exactly where they fell.

52

This past year taught me that peace feels different when you've had to fight for it.

I've spent so much of my adult life being somebody's something.

A wife.

A mother.

A daughter.

A sister.

A partner.

A problem solver.

The woman who figures it out.

The woman who keeps going.

The woman who says, I'm fine, because there are things to do and people depending on her.

But somewhere along the way, especially after the ending of a marriage that occupied such a large part of my adulthood, I started asking a question that sounds ridiculously simple:

Who am I when I am not performing a role for someone else?

I'm still answering that.

Maybe that's the point.

At 52, I learned that you can love someone deeply and still require more from love.

I learned that love doesn't automatically equal alignment.

I learned that boundaries aren't punishment.

I learned that being chosen privately isn't the same thing as being acknowledged openly.

I learned that sometimes two stubborn Caribbean souls can love each other tremendously and still drive each other completely insane.

And I learned that people can change.

Relationships can change.

Sometimes something has to come dangerously close to ending before two people finally stop protecting their pride long enough to protect what they actually love.

I've experienced endings this year.

I've experienced beginnings.

And strangely enough, I've experienced things I thought had ended becoming new again but only after I stopped trying to force them into their old shape.

I also learned about grief.

This year I said goodbye to my papa pooch Alvin.

Thirteen years of this tiny soul stuck to my hip, and then he was gone.

There are losses that don't need paragraphs of explanation.

You simply carry them.

He is one of mine.

I watched my child become even more herself.

Motherhood changes when your child becomes an adult.

You realize your job was never to create a smaller version of yourself.

It was to love a human being fiercely enough that they felt safe becoming exactly who they were meant to become.

Sometimes that requires adjusting.

Sometimes learning.

Sometimes worrying.

Sometimes protecting.

And sometimes simply standing beside them and saying:

I see you.

Maybe that's one of the greatest lessons of this entire chapter of my life.

People want to be seen.

Including me.

And somewhere in all of this, I started choosing myself differently.

I became more intentional about what I put into my body.

More intentional about movement.

More intentional about friendships.

More intentional about where I spend my energy.

More intentional about what I tolerate.

More intentional about the rooms I enter and the rooms I no longer feel obligated to remain in.

I am learning that a soft life isn't a life without difficulty.

Softness is knowing that difficulty doesn't have to become your permanent address.

I can be strong without living in survival mode.

I can be independent and still allow myself to be cared for.

I can love deeply without abandoning myself.

I can forgive without reopening every door.

I can miss someone and still understand why distance is necessary.

I can change my mind.

I can begin again.

At 53 years old.

Imagine that.

The Harvest

The Harvest Moon got its name because its light once gave farmers a little more evening to gather their crops.

I keep coming back to that.

A little more light to gather what you've grown.

That's what 53 feels like to me.

I'm not standing beneath this moon asking the universe to magically give me a different life.

I'm looking at the life I've already grown.

Some of it came from seeds I intentionally planted.

Some of it came from storms I never asked for.

Some of it grew wild.

Some of it needed shaping.

And some of the most beautiful things in my life somehow survived seasons when I was convinced they wouldn't.

So this birthday isn't about wishing I could be younger.

God, no.

I've already been 23.

I've been 33.

I've been 43.

Those women did their jobs.

They made mistakes for me.

They loved people for me.

They stayed too long for me.

They left when they finally found the courage.

They raised a child.

They survived heartbreak.

They rebuilt.

They carried me here.

I don't want their youth back.

I want the wisdom they paid for.

And on Saturday night, when that Harvest Moon rises, I'm going to look up knowing that somewhere between everything I've lost and everything I've gained stands this woman I am still becoming.

Fifty-three.

Still stubborn.

Still loving hard.

Still questioning things.

Still expressing herself.

Still learning.

Still changing.

Still capable of being surprised by life.

Still soft enough to love.

Still strong enough to leave.

Still brave enough to return when returning is right.

Still willing to begin again when it isn't.

And incredibly grateful that after all these seasons, there is still so much growing inside me.

Maybe that's what my Harvest Moon birthday means.

Not that everything has finally fallen perfectly into place.

But that I can finally look across the field of my own life the beautiful parts, the messy parts, the empty patches, the things blooming unexpectedly and recognize it.

This is my harvest.

I grew this life.

I survived its seasons.

And under the light of a full moon, I enter 53 not empty-handed

but carrying everything worth keeping.

Happy birthday to me.

The harvest is in. The next season begins.