I turned twenty-nine yesterday.

Not exactly a milestone birthday, twenty-nine, but it felt special. The number buzzed and fizzed like sparkling wine in my brain. Twenty-nine. TWENTY-NINE! Twenty. Nine. I tasted its bittersweetness like Aperol on my prefrontal cortex, savoring the new flavor. One year closer to thirty but one year farther from nineteen. What a remarkable thing!

Despite the inexplicable thrill I felt, the day was business as usual. Life doesn’t stop for your birthday when you’re an adult. My kids and I did chores, played, and read together as usual. My birthday present from my kids was picking out the movie for our afternoon rest time (a real treat!) Still, even as I ran through this routine, my thoughts kept returning to my age. And, subsequently, the nineteen-year-old a decade behind me.

That version of me had been engaged for two whole days on their birthday—of course, I went by “she” then. I fancied myself so grown up. I thought the ring on my finger symbolized maturity, not naïveté. I assumed much and knew very little of what getting married at nineteen meant for my life. I don’t regret how my life has turned out, but I’m hindsight, I would have taken more time.

The person I am today would terrify that version of me. I was queer but closeted, kind but close-minded, and so terribly ignorant of—not only the world around me—but my inner being. I know I should have grace for that child who thought they were an adult. I will have compassion someday, but for now, the thought of who I used to be often brings me shame.

I’m curious what I will say about myself ten years from now. What lessons will I have learned? My eldest will be nearly eighteen, and my youngest sixteen. How will they feel about themselves ten years from now?

Obviously, there is no way of knowing the answers to any of these questions. So, for now, I am content to say how I feel. I have been struggling with intense fatigue and joint pain for as-of-yet-unknown reasons. I’ve fallen behind on almost every responsibility, including writing. Summer has been full of time with my children, which is delightful. But both of them are excited to go back to school, and I am excited for them to go back to school too.

Besides all of this, I can honestly say that, for the first birthday in a while, I’m not just happy to have survived (thanks, depression). I am actually genuinely happy to be alive. I’m proud to have two wonderful children and have a list of published works I can claim—however short. I am endlessly grateful that the twenty-year-old kid who married me is now a thirty-year-old who still wants to be married to me. And most astonishing of all, I’m happy to be me. Another thing the nineteen-year-old version of me could never have foreseen. I’m out, proud, and thriving in the life my family and I have built together.

So here’s to twenty-nine and to another decade. I’m looking forward to meeting whoever I become next.