Yesterday was my birthday. And I woke up to—and enjoyed-all kinds of well wishes all morning. But like most milestones Ken was on my mind. Not in a sad way. Just in the way I carry him with me way. Of course, it’s impossible not to remember his fondness for ensuring I had a special day from the moment my head lifted from my pillow, until it collapsed drunkenly back into it. Birthdays celebrated with Ken were delightful and special.

Birthdays are meaningful days for most people. As they should be. Entering this world is a miracle. And it’s a day you’re reminded how many people are so ecstatic that event took place. It’s a day where you are unabashedly celebrated for being you. And just being. Period.

Mine falls two weeks after Ken left this world–a temporal fact I regarded as a curse. Particularly in 2011. I remember that first year—that I didn’t want to hear the words; that if Ken couldn’t wish me a happy birthday I didn’t want to hear it from anyone. It was a devastating reminder of what I’d lost and probably guilt-ridden way a way of punishing myself for living. Rather than hearing them as the affirmations they were intended to be.

Subsequent birthdays have gotten easier. More fun again, as they filled up again with friends wanting to take me for drinks or dinner; to celebrate with me. To celebrate me with me. And most importantly, I wanted to let them.

Triteness and working through survivor’s guilt, and the benefit of time have made birthdays fun again. And thanks to my family and friends, I’m already looking forward to next year.