This is my birthday gift to you: six days of remembering who you were, what you taught me, and what I hope the world might learn from your life.

I can’t keep hoping others will love me the way I need them to. I can only love myself enough to let it all go. To choose myself over everyone else. To hold on to my empathy and kindness — the parts of me I’ve always been proud of — while releasing the pain that weighs me down.

I have spent most of my life trying to figure out if I am who I am because of my neurodiversity, my trauma, or simply my personality. This kind of navel-gazing doesn’t come from self-loathing — I don’t look in the mirror and dislike who I see — but rather from the constant messages I’ve received from the world about who I’m supposed to be.