Today, as the morning sun poured through my kitchen window, I found myself smiling at the thought that I have seen 107 birthdays. My hands are not as steady as they once were, and my steps are slower, but my spirit feels just as alive as it did when I was a little girl, learning to bake beside my mother.
I woke up early to prepare this cake—my birthday cake—because it matters to me that I still can. Every beat of my heart carries a thousand memories: the days when flour dust floated in the air as my children ran through the kitchen giggling; the nights when I baked bread to warm a cold winter; the birthdays when my husband would hum my favorite tune as I frosted the cake.
I have seen so much in this life—wars and peace, sorrow and celebration. I have known the sweetness of love and the ache of loss. I have held babies in my arms who are now grandparents themselves. And all along, these hands have built a life I am proud of, from the smallest stitches in a torn apron to the towering wedding cakes I made for the people I love.
Today, I made this cake for myself. I stirred the batter slowly, feeling the weight of every year in my bones and the gratitude that fills me to the brim. With each turn of the spoon, I thought of everyone who once gathered around my table—some still here, some long gone but never forgotten.
And now, as I light the single candle on top, I whisper a quiet wish of thanks: for the gift of time, for the memories etched in my heart, and for the simple joy of still creating something with my own two hands.
Here’s to 107 years—and to all the little moments that made them beautiful.
