Today I turned 35 years old. I ate cake three times and got stuck in traffic and felt little heart hugs as I heard from friends all over the world and got bogged down by my work inbox and cuddled my babies as they sang me Happy Birthday and blindly reached into a plastic bag in Poppy's backpack and pulled out poop-stained pants. It was the perfect representation of the utter joy and teeth-gritting frustration that I feel lately. My life is beautiful and messy and noisy and chaotic and the best damn thing I could hope for. 

Today someone asked how old I turned and when I replied, they remarked the reason I'm so gleeful about birthdays is because I'm "on the right side of forty." And maybe that's true. Maybe 39-year-old Hillary will look back at 35-year-old Hillary and roll her eyes (I mean, it's inevitable). But I also feel like being diagnosed with cancer at 30 gave me perspective. Today I turned 35 years old. Not too shabby, if you ask me.