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Every year is a migration
marked by much more
than just a number
where the wings
of all the birds inside
have led you.

Sun, Apr 15, 2018 | Model info | Footnotes

April 12 was my birthday. I’m 33. I wrote this poem for myself that morning because it was how I was feeling, as if I had migrated to another me. I don’t love being the center of attention at a party, but I do love celebration the marker of a new epoch. Birthdays are a way for me to keep track of who I am, as I am ever-changing, both with and without intent. I will always be migrating to a new self based on my collection of experiences, and every year, April 12 is the day that I reflect the most in how those changes have manifested. I am so freaking happy for all the love and warmth and kindness I have in my life, from those that are close to me and also from strangers. It is an energy I put effort into cultivating, though I still feel lucky that it finds me. Thank you to everyone that has been in my life, those still here and those that have come and gone, making my migrations plentiful every time.

++ This photo was taken in Guanajuato, Mexico, from the terrace where I stayed.

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