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| I’ve always loved birthdays for the perspective they provide. Like New Year’s Day, birthdays are a chance to celebrate the passage of time, the wisdom gained. But with birthdays, there are no resolutions to shame and guilt ourselves into changing the pesky details of our lives that make us into perfectly imperfect human beings. |
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| Instead, they’re mile markers we pause and wave to as we pass by, leaving past years and mistakes in the rearview mirror. Goodbye, 46. It’s been real, 45. I don’t miss you a bit, 44. |
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| Still, there’s something to be said for milestones, and I always take a moment to reflect on a meaningful word for the coming year. |
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| Last year’s word was, to be quite honest, grace. I had just had a job change and was feeling tired, worn and anxious about the rocky roads ahead. I’d survived selling my home and packing and moving – but could I survive a transition into another year older? (I did. And I am. And I will.) |
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| So although I’m feeling wistful about leaving such a strong and capable word behind, I’m excited to welcome a new focus for year forty-seven of my life: Edit. |
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| And on the morning of my forty-seventh birthday, I feel 47. I feel edited and self-aware and comfortable with less. Because less almost always makes room for more. |
