Warning: This piece contains an unreasonable number of cheese references.

Permit me a wildly self-indulgent post. It is my birthday, and if a woman can’t spelunk into the gooey cavern of her own feelings on the anniversary of her arrival, then when can she?

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

I started this day as I do most days, forcing myself to wrestle with Mary Oliver.

For a while now, I’ve worked on carving out little havens for myself. Small sanctuaries filled with beautiful sounds and words and things to gaze upon and hold dear. I’ve tried to fill them with people, too. People who smile and cry, as needed. People who are an honor to stand with, or curl up next to, or double over in laughter with in the great messy queue of existence. And people who will, crucially, refrain from being grammar assholes over this entire paragraph.

And then I’ve worked on showing up in those havens, which is harder than you’d think. You’d think once you’ve carved out a space, you’d want to be in it, like a cat claiming a cardboard box. BUT NO. My instinct is to show up everywhere else first.

Those everywhere else spaces need people like me — people who are loud and unsoft in public. The spaces where people like me are asked to stand at the front and project their voices like a malfunctioning foghorn. The spaces where I need to show up (and shut up) so no one else has to be brave alone.

Those spaces can take your skin. Those spaces can be harsh and loud and brisk. I like none of those things.

Being unsoft in public isn’t easy. None of us is unsoft at all times. Even under-bridge trolls need an occasional snuggle and a nap. And I refuse to grow callouses. Callouses are for people who enjoy hiking or receiving constructive criticism, neither of which interests me.

But I go to the places I choose, and dwell among people I choose. Still, my unsoft places sometimes grow raw around the edges. Like a cheese that has been handled too enthusiastically at a village fête.

I want to be brave in this one wild and precious life, the kind of brave that requires ferocity and a willingness to occasionally be the cheese that stands alone. Sometimes I am the kind of brave that is also vulnerable. Different cheese, same position. But lots of people like cheese, I’ve learned. Somewhere out there are the people who love the exact cheese that is me.

I digress. I am also hungry for cheese.

Birthdays involve audits. Spiritual, emotional, sometimes literal, if you also store your things in creative locations and now want to use them to get your special birthday cookie at Crumbl. I use this day to ask myself: Am I who I want to be? Am I surrounded by marvelous, strong, brilliant, delightful people? Is the work mighty? Brave? Honest? (Is it occasionally funny, because bonus points for that.)

This past year has been…well, let’s say it has tested us all in ways that rattle our molars and make us long to burrow under blankets and just stay there for a good chunk of this wild and precious life.

But this is a new year. Every day can be a new year. This is why I wrestle with Mary Oliver and her profoundly, annoyingly inspirational poem.

I’m grateful for my people and our co-carved spaces, and the fact that I have the energy to carve them, and also for the baffling email from my insurance agency wishing me a happy birthday as if we’ve been through something together.

And I’m grateful for the privilege of being invited into some of your spaces.

Because at the end of the day, I hope to ease into another part of that poem: “Tell me, what else should I have done?” and know the answer is

“Nothing more.”

Thank goodness.

Thank goodness.