On my 24th birthday, my friends told me that they loved me. 

We have said the word love to each other before. I knew that I loved them, that they loved me.

But this time, I knew without a doubt how much my friends cared about me.

they didn’t even say the words, though.

This year has been tough. I often find myself just sitting and reflecting, still trying to process everything that happened over the past few months. I couldn’t believe it had only been 4 months. Deeply grieving, time was flying, and I was being dragged along with it.

Existing was hard, finding joy was harder.

But I was trying. That’s all I had in me, just try.

I’m not sure if I communicated this, I wondered if that was even possible.

My pain was unspeakable. I became it. 

I used to be scared that it showed. That the stench of my miserable life would remain even after I left a room. And the undertone of my discouraged world view was all that people would hear when I spoke. 

So, I decided to keep to myself. 

The fewer people who could smell me, the less there was proof that the pain was real. 

However, my fears then revealed themselves to be revelations to me. When people love you, I have now come to realize,

They notice.

I mean, I have, and they did. They may not say anything at first. All they might try to do is distract you from the sinking ship, attempting to offer you a break from the chaos; a gift of momentary ignorance, maybe in the form of a really bad joke. That momentary ignorance that allows you to catch your breath before you inevitably go back to the chaos. 

They may ask you about it, offer a lending hand, or a shoulder to cry on. 

The point is, they notice. 

My friends noticed. Maybe me telling them about some parts made them notice more, but they noticed and then, showed me that they loved me.

My 24th birthday honestly meant nothing to me. My childhood friend had passed away in January this year, so the concept of growing up without her did not interest me. 

I let my feelings be known. “Do not expect anything big, if at all.” 

The intention was to forget. To survive the weekend. Ignore the imposed survivor’s guilt.

I tried to ignore the tiniest part of me, the deviant that wondered maybe we should celebrate? It questioned why we would cross the finish line with our heads down. 

I entertained the thought. 

However, my fatigue was my strongest opponent, and boooyyy I was exhausted. I thought that there was only a tiny piece of me competing against it.

I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone. 

They offered me a weekend of stillness. When the ongoing war was reaching its climax. When my fatigue had gained an ally, when I felt so out of control and alone. They anchored my sinking ship, they granted me the understanding and privacy of my vulnerability, and supported me through it. They simply just showed up. Not passively, with intention, they fought hard to celebrate me.

This was the greatest act of love I have ever received and the most precious gift. It is a moment that pains me but also grounds me. They reminded me that I was loved, that their love for me was not dependent on how I showed up. They carried me into this new year of life. I wonder if they knew that I was kicking and screaming. They were with me from when the clock struck midnight to when it ended. 

They showed me that they loved me. I felt loved, but more importantly, I felt considered.