Reflections on Turning 45
I turned 45 this week. I sat on the back steps, got a little high, and watched the first cardinal of the season land on the fence beneath the willow. Hi, Marti. It was a moment of quiet, a flicker of connection, something small and beautiful. And yet, it was also a reminder: the best parts of the day always seem to be the ones I create for myself.
There are people in my life who show up for me—and I see them. Sarah’s kids made me beautiful, thoughtful cards, and that meant something. But inside my own home, where you want to feel most seen, most loved, it was just… hollow.
No message from my sister. No text from two of my nephews. And the man I share my life with? He walked off a plane, through a terminal full of possibilities, and came home empty-handed. No favorite snack. No special drink. No card. No cake. Just a casual, “Should we get something to eat before the play?”
I ate pretzels most of the day.
And still, there was that sliver of hope. That tiny voice that whispered maybe. Maybe this year would be different. Maybe someone in this house would say, You give so much—let me give something back.
But no one did.
The gifts were random Amazon trinkets the kids picked out. I smiled because I love them, and I understand the intent. But they’re kids. What they needed was guidance, an example, a parent to help them learn how to show up for someone they love. That part wasn’t there. That was Brian’s part.
This morning, after a last ditch effort of breakfast in bed, he asked me, “Did I do something to upset you?”
And I calmly told him—I’m not upset. I’m not even sad. I’m devastated.
Because it’s not just this one birthday. It’s every year. It’s every birthday where I’ve lowered my expectations, only to still find myself hurt. It’s every time I’ve stayed up late hanging streamers and hand-making signs for our kids because I want them to feel celebrated. I want them to know their lives matter, that they are worth the joy.
And year after year, he’s asleep on the couch while I make that happen.
There has never been a birthday where he’s plotted with the kids to do something special for me. They’ve learned birthdays are fun and exciting—but only for them. Still somewhat for Daddy. When it’s my turn, it’s always just… another day that I have to plan.
So yes, I told him: my 45th birthday came and went, and you fucked it up. There is no do-over. No surprise coming later that can rewrite what it felt like to be forgotten in the moment. I don’t want breakfast in bed the morning after my birthday.
He tried to speak, and I said—I don’t want to hear your excuses. Because there are none.
And the truth is, I can’t even hold out hope that anything will really change. I don’t believe there will be some deep, reflective moment where he sits the kids down and talks about what it means to make someone feel loved. I don’t think there will be a meaningful conversation, or a long look inward. And maybe that’s what breaks my heart the most.
Because isn’t that part of his role, too? Isn’t it part of being a father, a partner? To teach the kids not just how to receive love, but how to give it? How to recognize the person who carries the load and ask, What can I do for you today?
I love this man. There is an ease between us most days, and a shared rhythm we’ve built over time. But love doesn’t cancel out the pain of being unseen. And ease can’t be mistaken for effort.
The truth is, I’ve put up with too much for too long. And maybe I haven’t spoken up enough—or maybe I haven’t been loud enough in my asks. Maybe I still need to work through the part of me that believes if you have to ask for it, it doesn’t count. But at the same time, I don’t know how much clearer I can be. I don’t know how many more deep, vulnerable conversations I can have about my hurt without feeling like I’m losing my mind. I’ve spent years doing the work—my work. I’ve healed, stretched, learned, grown, reached. But I can’t do his work. And I can’t make him want that for himself. I can’t make him care enough to grow into the kind of partner who sees what needs tending and chooses to show up for it. I wish I could.
Just one day. That’s all I wanted. One out of 365 where someone in my home made me feel like everything I’ve done—all the quiet love, the invisible labor, the joy I’ve created for everyone else—was seen. Valued. Held.
I’m the magic maker. I hold so much, create so much, give so much. And still, I’m sitting on the back steps alone, looking for signs in birds and trying to convince myself it’s enough.
But it isn’t.
Assembling My Peace 