Happy Birthday

25. ¼ of a century. I see the colorful, foil “Happy Birthday” banner in my office that was waiting. Excited that everyone thought of me and felt reassured that it must mean I’m ok.

40. Threw myself a party. My friends from all the different areas of my life laughing and hugging with champagne glasses ready to be lifted. Toasting to my health and success for the next year. Validating that I was somebody.

65. No banner, no party. A simple day trip with one special friend. The excitement now coming from the red, white and blue Medicare card in my hand. This one feels so different.

So many moments in between these birthdays. It’s like looking out the window of a train watching the outside scenery whisking by. Now though, the memories and images expand revealing the different aspects I never fully saw.

Choices made that ended badly. Opportunities never taken, the road never traveled. And the lessons I never, ever, ever would have signed up for. Sometimes when I look back it feels like a bad country music song.

Joy and laughter. Accomplishing things, I never thought I could do. The amazing people I have met and the experiences we have shared. The travel, the parties, the friendships.

In all of this-one theme emerges. It’s as if Sally Fields has been narrating my inner life, “they like me, they really like me.” Being liked. Being accepted. What you thought about me was more important than what I thought about myself. It was all that mattered.

And there it was. The difference between being 25 to 40 to 65. The change. The shift. With work but also with grace and maybe just the adage that time takes time. That belief that my worth hinged on the approval and validation from others. If you thought well of me, I was great. If you disapproved, ignored or rejected me, I crumbled. My well-being and sense of self linked to the opinions of others. That is no longer the central tenet of my life.

Being liked. Being accepted.

It mattered until it didn’t.