Me. Wearing 32.

My thirty-second birthday was two weeks ago. Truth be told it was a pretty crappy day. Which is sad for someone who loves their birthday as much as I do. I was in Florida that day. Cleaning out my grandmother’s apartment. She had died unexpectedly two days prior and the funeral was the next day. My mom even forgot that it was my birthday. Which is crazy. Because the only person who loves my birthday more than me is her. But how could I hold it against her? She had just lost her mother.

There was no celebration. No balloons. Although there was a small cake from the grocery store that I took a fork to by myself that night in the hotel room around midnight. And that was ok.

When I got back to Utah I rescheduled my previously canceled annual-birthday-haircut. My appointment was yesterday. “April,” I said to my hairdresser. “Do what you want.” (She was shocked. I never say that.) And I like what she did.

This morning I was looking at a picture of me that was taken about a year ago. My hair is probably a good 12 inches shorter than it was then. It felt symbolic.

So much of my own personal growth this last year has been learning to let go. To let go of expectations. Of pain. Of disappointment. Of safety. Of plans. Of control. And yes. Even of hair.

So. 32. It came without fanfare and mostly just feels like a warm downy blanket that you settle into at the end of a long day. And I’m ok with that.

(Does that mean I’m getting older?)

p.s. don’t get me wrong–33 is going to be a bash. oh, and presents and well wishes are always welcome. I’m still a “birthmonth” celebrator after all. :)