Birthday mornings used to be marked by having my breakfast made for me by my mom. The food was always accompanied by hot cocoa. Over the years those hot cocoas turned to mochas turned to black coffee. I always enjoyed having those breakfasts with the family, and the dinners in the evening. The food was always hot and the atmosphere warm.
Then came a year when I had my birthday coffee with just my mom, in a new house with no memories of birthdays prior. On my 17th birthday I felt alone. My sister was taking a gap year volunteering with the NCCC and Americorps. And the dinner with my parents was decidedly colder. Civil, but cold.
The next year I turned 18 in a country where I wasn’t an adult til I was 19. I woke up alone, ate alone, and drank my morning coffee alone. That night I drank a bottle of root beer I had brought with me from Madison. It was a soothing taste of home in a strange land. A thousand miles from my closest friends, and still weeks away from meeting my new friends, it was another lonely birthday. I was happy to be somewhere new, somewhere I knew would be better than where I had been.
Last year I turned 19 in a room in my dad’s basement in a city I never wanted to live in. I had a glass of water when I woke up instead of coffee. Once again I was far, far away from any friends. This time I wasn’t without family though. That didn’t make me feel any less alone. I facetimed my sister for several hours that day. It closed the distance but didn’t warm the atmosphere.
Tomorrow I’m going to wake up alone. In an apartment that is just me and my stuff. I’ll still be in a city I never wanted to live in, and going to a university I never planned to study at. I don’t think I’m gonna have any hot cocoa or coffee with my breakfast. I don’t know what I’m gonna eat for dinner either. But for the first time in years I won’t feel alone when I wake up on my birthday. And I hope that that’s enough for me.
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