It is 2003, and I am making a birthday. I am a February baby, and I am born already asking for more time. I am screaming. I am laid in the hands of a woman who has been logging her pregnancy in a diary. I am the daughter of a man who watches in awe. There are four more parents on call. I am born already loved.

I am staring into the light of mid-twenties high school sweethearts who wanted me. I am already a combination of all the love I have ever felt, here in this hospital room, and it is so powerful I am scream-sobbing.

It is foolish, these days, to spend time trying to remember much of anything other than this.

23 years a daughter. 21 a big sister. 20 as a friend. Eons of being a small bird. A lifetime to go of combing through the wind. Dear Claire, you’ve lived a short life of forever. It is more beautiful than you know what to do with.

There have been days, and there have been months, and there have been the years. I have kept blonde hair on my head and teeth in my mouth for all of it. I have held onto pale skin and quick chatter. I want to thank the body which has grown, and the girl inside for watering along. Without her, I would be something entirely different. She has blue eyes that let in too much light. She has long let in light.

I love to write. I love to talk. I love driving, and I love to collect strange jewelry. I love when my brothers laugh at my jokes. I love when people make jokes. Sometimes, I like to cry. I like being alone in my room. I also like dancing at the bar, and I like looking at my handwriting on the calendar. I love sleeping. I love having curly hair. I love my life and I love what fills it, down to the slush I was born into and the lights I pull warmth from every winter.

When I was 22, I graduated college. I moved back home. I picked up some of where I left off, and I let some of it go. I started teaching kids to read. I learned that nothing is really the fault or responsibility of a child other than their own kindness. I met new people. I worked the carryout counter. I slept on couches when I visited. I drove all over Michigan. When I was 22, I decided to try bangs for the fifth time. I worked on being less afraid of my body. I got another tattoo. I bought more rings and thrifted more clothing. I talked too much shit. I overflowed with love. I met with a psychiatrist. I learned I could call this OCD and generalized anxiety disorder. I learned how a diagnosis informs your days. I was the tallest I had ever been, but I was unprepared and kept hitting my head on everything. I spent all my money on concert tickets and I cried on public transportation. I kept waiting for something to happen, only to realize a full of year of somethings did. I was a bird. I was nothing. I was the youngest I’ll be and the oldest I’d been. I had no both no excuse and every single one.

It is 2026, and I am asked who I would want to switch lives with if I could. I say no one. If I had not come down to earth as me, laid in the hands of who I was, I would have tried to be the family dog. I would have tried to be a tree in the backyard. I would have wanted a life if it could have been very close to this one, of course.

I am asked what I would do if I had only five more hours to live, and I say my evening plans would not change. These wins are small, but they are mine. This body is my home, these feet walk around my life. These two hands are softer than I thought. I don’t think they’ve made any mistakes on purpose. I have been blessed with love and time. I don’t need much else.

It is 2003, and I am alive in the light. I am set up for success in a woman’s arms because she is crying, and he is crying, and I am crying. I am two decades and some change. I am crying.

I love you, all of it. Thank you for the ways you’ve said it back.