20 years ago, I was dead.

Purple. That is the color my father uses to describe his first encounter of my skin. My heart wasn’t beating when I escaped my mother’s womb. She was diabetic, and having children wasn’t encouraged by her doctors. But God had a different plan, and 20 years later I am stronger than ever.

I can hardly comprehend that I am now 2 decades old. I finally feel my age. Maybe it’s the sound of twenty or the fact that I no longer have to use the word teen when describing my years of life. Either way, I have never felt more comfortable saying my age out loud. I feel like it fits with the rest of me. 20, however young it may be, feels years away from where I was as a teenager. I feel like I left that part of me years ago. I’ve had to grow up fast, and for the first time since that speedy process started — I’m finally content with being an adult.

It seems like just a few days ago, I was 18. Believing it was the best age to be and that I was going places… 

I suppose the phrase “age is just a number” applies to my life accordingly. An age will not define me. However, once again, I feel much more comfortable nonetheless.

I had an extremely wonderful 20th birthday. I have unbelievable friends who do more for me than they realize. By just being there, they amaze me. Thank you sincerely for dinner, dessert and good company tonight.

I like having a birthday at the beginning of the year. It’s easy to count the years, but it’s also nice to begin a fresh start.

Anyway — To finally get to the content of my title: 20 years ago, I was dead…

Like I said before, I was dead when I arrived in this world. It was hard on my mother to give birth, and being her second child — I had exhausted her raw. The doctors surrounded my mother and my heart stayed still. My father’s step-sister (an RN) gave me simple CPR and I breathed my first breath because of her. I’m thankful for her. I only remember seeing her a few times in my life, but I am truly thankful to her — because I am alive due to her efforts. Thanks Holly. 

I’m lucky to be alive. I’m thankful that my mother made it through the pregnancy to raise me to 12 years, and I’m thankful to my father for helping me out along the way.

I’m so thankful for my sister who keeps me sane.

I have good people in my life. I may be another year older, but boy I know I’m another year wiser. This past year I have been challenged, and I hope to God that never ends — because it means I’m living and fighting to continue to live — and it’s a good feeling to be alive.


Happy Birthday to me.





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