<<Image Description: three photos with white borders are centered horizontally on a pastel pink background. The first is a candid shot of Elisa holding two huge, metallic pink balloons in the shapes of a “3” and “0.” The second is a stock photo of a white frosting birthday cake sitting on a red plate in front of a baby blue background. The third is a portrait-style photo of Elisa, smiling with closed lips at the camera.>>

Every year in September I start mentally bracing for the 19th. For the day that means one more year of my life was spent in a way I never would have chosen for myself- neurologically and physically limited.

As I have come to realize that society and culture have purposely trapped its constituents in boxes according to age, I’ve come to fear growing older less and less. But that doesn’t make aging with chronic health conditions any easier, especially if grief surrounds the actual date of one’s birth.

There are periods of time I’ve lost because of brain injury- memories that blur around the edges or are difficult to retrieve, or gone all together. However, September of 2016 exists with a clarity that astounds me. September of ‘16 brought the last birthday of my able-bodied life. What I think of now as the last birthday of my youth and innocence.

My parents and I flew to Portland to attend the wedding of a family friend. It rained. The reception was moved inside. The bride wore her mother’s wedding dress, and a teenager asked me to dance. My best friend drove five hours from Spokane to see me, and we ate doughnuts and looked at roses.

The day of my birthday was spent chasing waterfalls in wonderfully sprinkly weather. Our friends surprised me with a cake when we stopped at Dairy Queen for lunch. Later, my mom gave me a birthday card I can still fully picture, and we went to the movies.

I remember what movie we saw. I remember what we ate for dinner that night. I remember what the hotel room looked like. I remember. I remember. I remember.

A month later would be the ill-fated mission trip to India and the infamous concussion.

Every year my mind will take me back to Portland, and I grieve and I wish. I grieve for the girl I usted to be, and for all the hopes and dreams she had for her future.

I grieve and I wish.

I wish I could go back to 23- to being physically well and vibrant, and ready for anything.

Every September is seeped with sadness. I’m sad for all the things I couldn’t and haven’t participated in. I’m sad I know what medical trauma and gaslighting is like firsthand. I’m sad I know what it is like to wish for different, for better, for death.

So how does 30 feel? It feels the same. It feels the same as 25, 26, 27, as every year my body has failed to behave as it should.

I am thankful though. I’m thankful for 30 because it means I survived the nightmare on 20’s street. Obviously my 20’s were full of wonderful moments, but the decade was rather painful and I’m grateful to be past it.

I’m also thankful 30 doesn’t feel old. At least my 30 doesn’t. My 30 feels young, motivated, whimsical, and still hopeful.

Like my younger wish-upon-a-star self, I still hope my dreams will come true.

I hope yours will too.

Love Always,

Elisa