Another Year, Another Layer
This week marks my eighth birthday without Andy. I was 48 when he died—just a couple of months shy of 49—and this year, I’ll turn 56.
For eight birthdays now, there’s been no “Happy Birthday, Orls” from the other side of the bed. No card waiting for me in the kitchen. And oh, those cards—never romantic, never flowery. Andy wasn’t a man of gestures (grand or otherwise), and yet I adored his cards. Always a bit off, a bit daft—like a sailing boat, or a golfer, or something totally unrelated to me. That was the whole point. It was a quiet kind of humour, a dry irreverence that said more than any big sweeping declaration ever could. But back then, I didn’t see it for what it was. I was caught up in needing more—bigger gestures, louder love. I didn’t yet understand how deep the quiet could be. One of those regrets that stays with you. But I also understand there were layers to why I needed more. Too many to unwrap here.
This year, there’s no birthday cake. No party. No fuss. And surprisingly, that feels exactly right.
In the earlier years, I couldn’t have imagined that. Especially not after the train wreck of my 50th, where I tried to do the “right” thing—the “big” thing. A gathering, a surprise, a celebration. All the stuff you’re supposed to want.
And it was awful.
The energy was off. My son was running wild – trying to escape the weird energy I bet. I was numb. I’d invited people out of obligation, not desire. I was still deep in grief, still trying to find my footing, and yet I pushed ahead because it felt like I should – because Andy never would get to his 50th.
But there was no joy in it.
No comfort.
No connection.
Since then, I’ve learned to stop doing what I think I should do, and instead, I ask: what does my body need? What does my soul crave?
This year, I booked myself into a sound healing session. A dark room, strangers, crystal bowls. My son would hate it—and that’s fine. He’s old enough to stay home now. Old enough to call me if there’s an emergency. Old enough that, finally, I can take a few hours to do something just for me.
And it’s not about the activity itself. It’s about what it represents.
A slow, steady reclaiming of self.
A celebration that has nothing to do with cake or candles and everything to do with surviving—and more than that, living.
In these last seven years, I’ve learned how to sit beside my son’s anxious, overactive body and mind and teach him how to soothe. Through breath, through presence, through simply being there. I still do it, though not every night. His body is learning bit by bit what to do now.
And so does mine.
It was yoga that started it. Back in those early days, when I was barely holding it together, I found myself in a windowless gym studio with strangers, lying on the floor in “dead man’s pose” with tears leaking out the corners of my eyes. I didn’t know it then, but that was the start of everything.
Tiny movements. Small shifts. Relearning how to breathe.
And now, eight birthdays later, I can honour what I need instead of forcing something that doesn’t feel right. No more pushing through. No more pretending.
Just noticing.
Listening.
Choosing softness where I once chose survival.
My gratitude for the smaller, quieter things is what makes my heart feel big. It’s been a slow, steady evolution—from trying to live up to what’s expected on a big birthday, to learning how to tune in to what my body and soul actually want on the day that marks when I became a living, breathing human.
And that, for me, is worth everything.
Or if you’re looking for something gentle to hold you right now, download my free guided meditation here.
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You’re not alone—even when it feels like it.