Cumpleanos.

Birthdays are a wonderful thing. Not for the presents, but for the mere fact that it is a celebration of you being in this world. It is a time for you and everyone you know to rejoice in the fact that you have brought light and radiance to an otherwise dismal world. And while you share the day with thousands - perhaps millions - of other people in the world, it still feels like it is solely yours, and I think that's special.

For me, though, birthdays have always been bittersweet. As a child, I was most excited about getting presents. What kid wasn't? We're selfish and greedy (and some never grow out of that mindset), so all that we know is ourselves and what we want. But as I grew older, birthdays took on a different meaning for me. I don't know when it started, exactly, but at some point, it continually brought up thoughts of my birth mother. I used to ask my mom - and sometimes, I still do - whether or not my birth mother knew when my birthday was. Or if she thought of me at all. Or if she knew how old I was or was going to be. My mom always told me that there's no way for a woman to have a child and not know and remember all of these things. And while her words always brought solace to me, there was still this underlying twinge of doubt.

What if she really didn't remember? What if she didn't think of me at all? What if she had forced herself to forget giving birth to me or giving me up? What if she was dead? The last option gave me a sense of finality, at least, so I didn't have to wonder all of the time. If she's dead, she's dead - end of story. But all of those other thoughts? They tore me to the very core. The thought of being so thought-filled when it came to her, and to think of her not reciprocating that sort of emotion, ripped me apart. So while I smiled awkwardly as people sang "Happy Birthday" to me, I always had tears in my eyes at these swarming thoughts.

What if she had forgotten about me?

And now, I find myself six days away from my 23rd birthday. I can feel these thoughts tapping on my shoulder, beckoning me to turn around and weep at this hypothetical devastation. But I'm forcing myself to face forward. I've come to realize that if she has forgotten about me, then that's it. I cannot control her - I don't even know her. But even if I did, I wouldn't be able to control her thoughts or feelings or actions. They are hers, as mine are mine.

So, I'm taking five days off from work, starting on my birthday. I'm spending four of them with the one man who renews my faith in the world, in life, and in love, each and every day. I'm continuing to break out of my stage fright and singing a song of love and happiness at the store meeting on Sunday. I'm celebrating being alive. I'm celebrating having been born. I'm celebrating the fact that my birth mother, wherever she is, decided to give me up. I'm celebrating my life - what has come to pass and what will be in the future. I'm letting go of all of this pain and all of this fear and deciding that damn it - I'm worth it.

- May (you never forget to dance).