Birthday Wishes

Yesterday was my birthday. If you don't know me in real life, I am really big on birthdays. I love them. And not just my own—I love all birthdays. This one day a year, we get to celebrate the odds-defying magic that a particular human came to be. All of the things that had to be right for it to happen. Not to mention all of the tiny cells, nuances, and character traits that make us up. Being YOU is a blessing and a miracle. I think that should be celebrated.

So I do. I plan. I coordinate. I celebrate. Of course, the theatrics are mostly saved for my kids. But if you are a friend of mine, I have undoubtedly sung to you on your birthday. Even acquaintances on Facebook have been graced with my song or funny image/video/message from me. I make a big deal about birthdays.

Years ago, in my previous life as a DJ, I worked a woman's 50th birthday party. I had probably played hundreds of events at that point, but this was my first "White Party." I was given instructions to dress in all white, as all the guests were. It was an outdoor party at their house—nothing extravagant—but the decor and the attention to detail made the celebration feel opulent.

I immediately began imagining my own over-the-top birthday party. I mean, I did birthdays... but this family had done something magical. Right down to the twinkle lights. I had no significant birthdays in my immediate future, but I figured this gave me plenty of time to plan for my 40th. Maybe it wouldn't be a white party. Maybe the guests would all wear black and I would wear white? Or maybe it would be a black and silver theme? All I knew was that I wanted something luxurious. A party that would be remembered. Perhaps even written about years later in a blog.

Dear reader, let me save you the suspense. It didn't happen. Despite making it very clear to my (then) husband and best friend that all I wanted for my 40th was a party, none was planned. Now, I cannot say that without also acknowledging that the year before I turned forty, my life was flipped completely upside down. As it is not my story to tell—well, not entirely anyway—let's just say there was a large rift within the family and community. I was not on the "winning" side (read: popular), so I had lost many relationships that year. Perhaps the party would have to be smaller than I originally envisioned, but certainly I still had enough friends to fill a backyard?

The morning of my 40th birthday, I got the kids off to school, as I always did, drove to Starbucks for a birthday latte, and then sat in the parking lot of Marshall's waiting for them to open. While I did not have a party planned, I did have dinner plans and drinks later with friends. That morning, all I felt was empty. I had been fighting for so long to keep it together—putting a smile on my face and acting brave—when what I really wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there.

Then-husband had made it clear the night before that my needs were not as important as his career. Despite having promised me we could move and start over somewhere new, he continued to make plans that involved us staying. When I asked him about it, his response was curt and dismissive:

“What did you expect, Trina? My job is here.”

People like to ask divorced people, “When did you know it was over?”

For me, it was then. Maybe not in that exact moment. But I remember being filled with a deep indifference. Normally, I would have countered. Started a fight. Pleaded my case. But in that moment, I felt nothing but acceptance. This is as good as this gets. The answer had always been clear, but in my need to live out a happily ever after, I kept dressing it up as some sort of fairy tale.

The next morning, I sat in our family van, littered with evidence of our lives—granola bar wrappers, a bowling ball, jerseys, pick-up line cards, and water bottles. Coffee in hand and my heart in my throat, I finally cried. I couldn't stop. Honestly, it was like a dam within me had broken, and my normal self-talk could not shake me out of it. I was still crying when Julie messaged me on Instagram to wish me a happy birthday.

Friends, I want to be clear here—I did not leave my husband for Julie. But I was able to leave him because of her. Because she did not know me as a submissive wife. She had no knowledge of all the ways I'd shrunk myself over the years, the concessions I'd made, the way I'd silenced my own voice. She didn't know that version of me. She only remembered the girl I had been twenty years before. And thank God for that.

Talking to her reminded me. It was like visiting my younger self. I had missed her. This girl who wouldn't let anyone else determine her self-worth or her dreams. She is loud and opinionated and headstrong. She knows what she wants, and she goes after it. That girl would have been appalled to see her future self crying in a dirty kitchen day after day.

On the phone, Julie asked me why I was crying. I told her I couldn't tell her. I still remember the hesitation. This heaviness in my chest. She pressed on—of course I could tell her. We had always been able to talk about anything.

“If I say one thing, I will say everything. And once I've said it, I've admitted it. Out loud. I don't know if I'm ready to do that,” I told her.

I knew that if I said it out loud, I couldn't unknow it. There is a difference between knowing that you're unhappy and admitting it. I can't explain it better than that. I'd spent years knowing that I wanted more, knowing I was unfulfilled and unhappy. I convinced myself that if I just tried harder, did more, loved more... that I could be happy. But admitting all of that out loud? That felt like a betrayal. A line crossed. One that, up until that day, I hadn't been willing to cross.

My best friend at the time did her best to plan and celebrate me. She told me later that my husband had been impossible and did not coordinate with her to plan anything. She planned an evening at her house with some of my favorite people and our kids, and then a surprise brunch with my mom and closest friends. Saturday and Sunday, she had covered.

Friday, my actual birthday, we met friends for dinner, then met my childhood best friend at a speakeasy. I had requested to NOT drive. I was always the designated driver when we went out, but this was my milestone birthday, and I wanted to celebrate without worry.

On the drive home, I concluded that maybe I'd over-celebrated because I could barely keep my eyes open. I desperately wanted my bed. I might have leaned my head against the window and snoozed until we got home had I not noticed the van crossing the double yellow lines. I don't remember if I offered to drive, but I do know that I asked him if he was okay to drive and to pay attention. He was swerving. When we arrived home, there were no parking spots by our place, so he offered to drop me at the door and park in the bottom lot.

I bee-lined right for the bed. Twenty minutes later, our teenager woke me up to ask where he had gone. I didn't realize how much time had passed. We both tried calling him. I checked his location, and he was still in the parking lot. Close to an hour passed. I was trying to sleep off the alcohol, regretting my choice to let loose, while my teenager now paced and panicked and woke me up repeatedly to say he wasn't home yet.

Eventually, she tired of this and walked down to find him passed out with the van still running. He yelled at her and told her that he's fine. What is she even talking about? He will be up. He wasn't sleeping. He just got here. I don't know exactly what he said to her. I know that when she came back into the house, she was upset and angry, and I felt like absolute shit for letting her be the only functional grown-up that evening.

I haven't been drunk since. I have had drinks socially. I have enjoyed a margarita on girls’ night or a glass of wine after a long week, but I have not crossed that line again. As of this moment, I haven't had a drink since last year. I had a sip of champagne on New Year's Eve and not another since. My children deserve to have at least one parent they can depend on. Someone they can call any day or time and know that I will show up with all of my faculties intact. I am not nursing a hangover at the field, leaving them to fend for themselves on the weekends, or planning our lives around my social calendar.

Alllllll of that to say—my 40th birthday sucked in a lot of ways. But it was my favorite in that it allowed me to finally see my life as it was, speak my truth, and admit that this was not the life I wanted for myself or my children. When I asked for a divorce two weeks later, I said that forty was both too young and too old. Too old to keep wasting time and too young to give up on life.

Friends, do not settle. Do not say it's good enough. Do not say you're staying for the kids. What a crock of shit. At the end of it, I asked myself if this is what I would want for my daughter. Is this the ideal relationship for my children to mirror in their own lives? The answer was ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Which brings us to Forty-Three...

Sometimes, I still want to pinch myself. This is my life. My children are loved and supported and thriving. But so is their mama. Do not underestimate the effects of a broken mother on her children. So much of what we learn comes from our parents. Our self-worth and confidence get tied up in how we viewed love as a child. You are teaching them every day—not only with your words, but with your actions, behaviors, and habits. That includes the good and the bad.

If you prioritize your health, your children will learn to do the same. If you habitually get drunk on the weekends, your children will also learn to do the same. If you settle for a good-enough love, so will they. In this house, we have hard conversations. We kiss (a lot!). We work as a team, support each other's goals, and live each day with intention. It's not perfect. It's life. It gets messy. It gets loud. But it never goes silent.

This is a little all over the place. But I was revisiting some past emotions, from my now-healed place, and couldn't help but share this story—for whoever needs it.

I am not saying that starting over, speaking your truth, blowing up your whole life, is easy. It is not. I still wonder if I had to lose so many friendships in the crossfire, or if it was just the way I handled it. Maybe some could have been salvaged? Somehow, I doubt it. The people who truly love you do so even when you are not at your best. They love you when you're wrong and losing your mind. They're there when the smoke clears.

So yeah—maybe you'll feel lonely or abandoned. Maybe you'll be really uncomfortable for a while. But maybe... you'll finally be free. Free to love and be loved. Free in your own skin. Free in the world. To live on your own terms.

Julie doesn't make me happy. She allows me to be happy. She supports my happiness. She contributes to it. Your partner isn't in charge of your emotions. But they sure as hell can be the cause of them. It's up to you to choose you. To choose something different. Something more. Something better. Create a life worth living—and then actually live it.

Anyway, this year for my birthday, I want other women to see their worth, stop living small, and dare to demand something extraordinary.