You know that feeling, when you meet someone who shares the same birthday as you? It feels like the sweetest little coincidence, assuming it’s someone you like. Well, a friend just sent me a graphic listing the most common birthdays in the U.S. and mine is number one. I fact-checked her, of course, so feel free to fact check me, but I’m torn between thinking this is a special little detail and thinking it’s the very opposite. The defining feature of something being “special” is, naturally, scarcity and we September 9thers apparently have the least of that in the U.S. So is the burden of the over-thinker.

Eleven years ago, on my 25th birthday, I started this blog. Last year marked 10 years of writing, fairly consistently, about grad school, my dating life, my career, married life, being a homeowner, undergoing infertility, and finally being a stay-at-home mom. Only during 2020 did I take an extended break, while I dealt with the heartache of pandemic infertility. Even then, I told my tale on a linked page at Belle of Infertility. I wanted to record my story and feelings, for myself and anyone else suffering, but I didn’t want to turn my beloved blog into a depressing ode to infertility.

It’s been more than ten years. That’s longer than I spent in college, longer than I worked in my library system, longer than I’ve known Jake. I’ve gone from working two jobs and wondering when my life would start, to the #girlboss and teen librarian, to Just Wife and Mama. Blogging may not be as in fashion as it once was, but this is the closest I’ll ever have to time travel, as I revisit different versions of myself and my world. It’s been a wonderful adventure, growing up and keeping track of the funny, sad, frustrating, infuriating moments. I look back over the last 11 years and I see that it was all worth it: the grad school drama, the financial struggles, the missed job opportunities, the bad dates, the toxic friendships, the stress of moving to a new city, of buying a home, the devastation that is infertility, the heartbreak of losing my mother, the fear of nearly dying in childbirth, and the confliction of leaving my career. Every tearful prayer, every moment of wondering what would be, every scream of rage brought me here… and here is really good.

As I start a new year, at 36, I look forward to a thousand more adventures with my husband and our hard-won babies. I’m certain the next year will bring even greater chaos, but I’m optimistic it will also see the completion of our family. This year, we hope to add one more, our fourth and final, rounding off the stage of life that is growing our family and moving into the stage that is raising it. We aim to put infertility behind us once and for all, pull ourselves out of the debt it’s inevitably led to, and enjoy our young family with a little less stress. We won’t be traveling the world or enjoying expensive luxuries, but all the same, on my 36th birthday, I’d say I am very much living my dream.