Learning to Honor Myself

It's my party and I'll invite you to do some light optional weeding if I want to

Dec 20, 2024

You arrive at the garden on a cool, sunny morning. The air carries the smells of coffee, oranges, and oak burning in a small ceremonial fire. You hear birds, wind chimes, and the squeals of a toddler delighting in the day. By the beautyberries, a brunch spread beckons: cheeses and pastries, latkes and lox, blood oranges and pomegranates. Your neighbor crouches by the rosemary, chatting with your child’s fourth-grade teacher as they pull weeds encroaching on the aloe. Some folks are stretched out on blankets, soaking in the winter sun, while others gather around the fire, offering up what they’re ready to leave behind as we cross the threshold of the winter solstice.

This is the vision I’ve created for my birthday party.

For most of my adult life, I’ve been profoundly uncomfortable with my birthday. I don’t know if this is normal or if it’s rooted in my upbringing in a spiritual community where we were taught to kill our egos. Every December, the part of me that longs to say what I want, to be celebrated, and to gather others around me has emerged—only for me to squash it.

Instead, I leaned into solitude, spend the day curled up in bed journaling, feeling a weird vague dread I can’t describe. Don’t get me wrong; I love solitude. My husband and I even built our marriage on a credo of being “guardians of each other’s solitude.” But solitude as a coping mechanism—a shield against feeling unworthy of celebration or the pressure of others’ expectations—is something else entirely.

No longer.

Yesterday was my birthday, and I loved every minute of it. My day was full of meaningful work and connection: a morning meeting with a dear client and brother, a somatic therapy session where I spoke to my inner child, a strategic development call with trusted advisors, and a date night with my husband to see Wicked in my childhood movie theater. It was a full day, but it didn’t feel like too much. I loved every interaction, I declared boldly and repeatedly that it was my birthday, and I sent blessings and prayers to everyone I encountered with a big open heart.

Tomorrow is the solstice, and it’s my birthday party. And for the first time in my adult life, I’m genuinely looking forward to it.

Voicing Desires, Voicing Needs

This shift began two years ago, in the raw weeks postpartum after my son was born. I was living in a house with three people whose sole focus was helping me get what I needed to nourish and be present with my baby. Every morning, I woke up with a hunger so intense it felt primal—an echo of childbirth recovery and breastfeeding. Most days, I knew exactly what I wanted to eat. I could almost taste it. In my mind I could clearly outline the steps to prepare it.

But I couldn’t say it.

Something in me was blocked. I could feel the desire, picture it, even long for it, but the words wouldn’t come. And this wasn’t just about breakfast. It was the same energy I’d felt for years—a deep struggle to articulate my needs and ask for what I wanted.

But this time, it wasn’t just about me. My inability to ask for what I needed rippled outward, affecting my child. It impacted the nourishment I could give him, the presence I could bring to him.

I had to learn to move through this block, and find who I am on the other side.

Over the past two years, I’ve been in a gentle, steady process of examining and working with that part of myself. In this process I’ve learned from my colleague and friend

Dajé Alōh

the language of Visionary Crisis: having a clear vision of what could be possible but lacking the capacity, resources, or capabilities to see it through. That framing, within this context, has been liberating.

Motherhood as a Mirror

Motherhood is full of mirrors, reflecting back the parts of ourselves we’d rather not face. For me, it brought into sharp focus how often mothers lose their ability to advocate for their needs, dissolving into the role of caregiver. I saw it in my own mother growing up—a woman who, with an often unsupportive partner, often sacrificed her own needs in service of my sister and I. I’ve seen it in so many other mothers. And I know that if I want things to be different for others, I have to make them different for myself first.

This year, for my son’s second birthday, I threw him a party. For his first birthday, we’d gone to the zoo with family, but I’d never really hosted a celebration. This time, I leaned into the joy of envisioning and creating something beautiful for him. His birthday fell on Rosh Hashanah, a holiday of new beginnings, and I used its sensory associations—apples and honey—as inspiration, blending them with his love for Winnie the Pooh.

We created a field of abundance: beehive-inspired cakes, cheese platters with honeycomb and apples, and a cottagecore spread of sensory delights. He’s only two, so he couldn’t articulate what he wanted, but I could. And I made it real.

It was an act of devotion to him. And in doing it, I realized: if I could do this for him, I could do it for me.

Creating a Vision for Myself

About a month ago, I participated in a session with the Futurewriting Collective within

Storywork Studio

. In this visioning and writing process, I saw myself with my community, gardening together, cultivating the earth and connection with the people I love. That vision stayed with me, and when it came time to plan my birthday, it felt like the perfect opportunity to make it real.

I won’t pretend it’s been easy. My desire to avoid inconveniencing others is strong. The idea of inviting people to come over and do “optional light weeding” still makes me cringe a little. But every person I’ve shared this with has responded with enthusiasm: “That sounds so nourishing, I’m in.”

They’re right. It does. It’s going to be beautiful.

Further, when I clarify to anyone what I’d like most as a gift for my birthday: “Whatever your favorite ingredient to cook with is, I want to try it out, and I’ll think of you with every dish I make.“ The response to this is often, “Oh! I know exactly what I’ll get you! And it gives me a good reason to stock up on it myself!“

And this is the lesson I’m learning: when I break through the ways I isolate myself, when I step into relationship and connection, I create space not just for my joy, but for others’ as well.

Honoring Myself, Honoring Others

Learning to articulate what I want and ask for it isn’t just about me. It’s about modeling a high standard of care for my child, for other mothers, for anyone who struggles to honor their needs.

This year, I’ve learned that honoring my desires isn’t selfish—it’s an act of nourishment, not just for myself but for my community. Tomorrow, we’ll gather in the garden, offering up what we’re ready to leave behind and welcoming what’s to come.

I’ve spent so many years shrinking from my own visions. Now, I’m ready to live them.