It's my birthday on Sunday. I will be 38 years old.
'Do you remember what I said to you, this time last year? I knew it was going to be your year,' a wise friend said to me this morning. 'And it has been!'
It's been a BIG year, at least. A lot has happened. It's all happened quickly.
I've had a lot of adventures. I've been to some new countries. (Finland and Russia, since I last posted here!)
I've cleared out a lot of stuff. I've given up smoking. I've cut off all my hair. I feel Kon-Mari-ed to the absolute core.
Last year I had a birthday party and invited an interesting new friend. A month later we decided on a whim to go on holiday together. We've lived in the same house for six months now.
In my writing life, I've taken some risks that have paid off. I feel like I've made progress and got better at some of the things I do. I've started trying out some new ideas.
It's only been possible because I laid the groundwork first. When I turned 36, I realised that if I was not at rock-bottom, then at the very least things had to change. A month after my birthday, I called a therapist and when she asked how she could help me, I cried so hard I couldn't speak. I've been seeing her every week for nearly two years now, and I know that I wouldn't have the relationship I have or be doing the writing I am doing now if I hadn't made that call.
This time last year, when I turned 37, I spent the day before my birthday in Paris. I felt so much happier in myself but I also felt in flux, ready for things to change.
I know as well as anyone that life can change in a minute, for better or worse. Whatever happens, I feel for the first time like I'll be OK.
I am a solid fucking grown-up woman. It feels great.
