Five years ago, I turned 40—a milestone birthday. I love birthdays. It’s always so funny to sit and think about what I thought aging would feel like, what I thought “old” was. And now, I know for sure that it’s not me, and it’s not this. I didn’t want my 40th to pass without giving it the recognition it deserved. Of course I know my family always has something planned to celebrate and I wanted to do something myself as well.

A few years ago I met Tiu De Haan, an incredible Ritual Designer and Creative Facilitator. Her job is to create rituals and is an incredible creativity coach. So I reached out to her and asked her to create a birthday ritual for me. It was perfect. I reflected year by year, from 30 to 40, and sat with everything—what I’d been through, what I’d learned, what I was carrying forward. It felt like such a full-circle moment, and now, here I am again. This time, I want to create my own reflection: looking back, being present, and thinking ahead.

There are ages that feel are significant in life: 7, 10, 14, 16, 18, 21, 25, 30, 40, 45, 50, 60, 70… and so on. And today I turn 45.

This morning, I started my day by taking myself out for coffee. I’m sitting outside at Parkers DQ, enjoying this incredible weather, waiting for my coffee, and listening to my nostalgic music playlist.

Looking back on this year—the year I lost my father—it’s hard to see anything else. I can’t think beyond, behind, or around losing him. But even in the pain, I want to hold onto the beauty.

The greatest gift this year gave me was time with my father. Waking up and having breakfast with him every morning. Sitting in silence—not visiting, just being. Relearning his routines, his wants, and his needs. Knowing what to bring him before he asked. These are things we lose when we grow up, move out, get married, and build our own lives. This year brought them back to me.

And his love. Even in his illness, he showed us how much he loved us. Every time he rallied and said, “I’ll be okay,” he loved us. Every time one of us stayed with him in the hospital, and he worried about our comfort, he loved us. Every time he asked, “Did you sleep? Did you eat? Are you okay?” he loved us. When he sent the nurse to hand me his iPad because I might want to watch something, he loved us. Even in his unnecessary apologies, he loved us.

Someone recently looked at pictures of him and said, “He’s always leaning into the camera.” He was. His arms always around us, his face always open and smiling. His love was always there—big and clear.

This year also gave me my sisters and brothers in ways I’ve never known before. We found each other in our love for my father and in caring for him. We take each other for granted until life shows us how lucky we are.

I held his hand, hugged him, told him I loved him. I got to have him as my father for 44 years. Which makes this 45 feel strange.

Present. You know, I want to talk about him always. It’s been almost eight months, which is nothing, and yet everything has changed. I want to feel this way forever—the ache, the love, the longing. How beautiful it is to have loved someone so much that their loss changes the shape of you. Yes, I cry, and yes, it feels like a lot and it’s all the time, but it’s also the most beautiful kind of love.

Honestly, I thought this reflection would be more practical. But that’s what came up.

Looking ahead.

Someone asked me how I feel about 45 and then cut me off, saying, “I know, I know—it sucks.” Who said?! It’s the coolest. Who knew this was 45?! I’m excited about the next five years. I want to get to 50 and be bewildered, amused, and delighted to say, “This is 50!”

I’m still waiting to feel like a full-blown adult, but maybe this is it. Adulting in the best way I know how. It’s fun and exciting. I’m still making new friends, trying new things, going new places. I feel like I’m the same as I was at 35 (25 even)—still a messy mess, but now with eyeliner, mascara, and a skincare routine. I’m working on myself, but I’m aware. And God has given me my family, sisters and friends who remind me with their much-needed honesty and support.

Goals for the next five years:

I want to be healthier and stronger. I’m still figuring out what that means. Maybe running again? Or maybe I start riding? Or swimming? I want to feel physically the way I feel mentally. I know it’s going to take effort, but I’m excited about that.

I want to also stop looking forward all the time and look at where we are now and what’s happening now. To do that I need less:

• Less guilt.

• Less indecisiveness.

• Less stress.

• Less phone addiction.

• Less being available.

• Less doing.

That’s where I was and where I am now and where I want to be. I know I’ll carry the loss of baba with me. As one of my sisters says he deserves to be mourned like this. So I carry it with me while still moving forward and getting excited about things to come.

Here’s to 45. Here’s to the next five years. Here’s to everything that’s brought me here and everything that’s still ahead. And here’s to a New Year that feels a little less like having surgery while still awake and a little more like dancing badly but confidently at a wedding.

What are your New Year’s resolutions?