Today is my 50th birthday.
A couple of weeks ago, I was lamenting my birthday’s approach because of its promise of middle-aged woman invisibility as punishment for graying hair and slowing metabolism. I managed to climb out of self-pitying funk long enough to eke out a “happy 50th birthday old man” wish to a Latino friend. His response: “Lol…Thank you. Crazy. Never thought I’d live past my 20s yet here I am.” And the next day George Floyd was murdered, just days after we learned about Breonna Taylor’s and Ahmaud Arbery’s murders. George was 46. Breonna was 26. Ahmaud was 25.
Nothing quite like the realities of racism punching you in the chest to inject a bit of perspective.
So today, I know have so much to be thankful for. Loving family and friends. A beautiful home. A full refrigerator. A healthy body—including my one kidney (normal creatinine and undetectable urine microalbumin on recent labs). Yet, my heart is heavy and my body tired. Not because of some superficial and distorted meaning I had previously attached to a woman turning 50, but rather because I need to feel lucky to have reached this milestone because of racism. I hope my Black husband and Black son are allowed to reach this milestone too.