A century lived — through war and peace, heartbreak and healing, change and quiet stillness. I’ve seen the world spin through moments of light and shadow. And though I never married, never had children of my own, I have never considered myself empty.
I’ve learned that love takes many forms — not just the kind found in wedding vows or lullabies to a newborn. I’ve loved in small, steady ways: in handwritten letters to friends long passed, in the kindness of neighbors who became chosen family, in the quiet joy of feeding birds outside my window, and in every warm loaf and sweet bite I’ve ever pulled from my oven.
This morning, I lit a single candle on a cake I baked myself. A little crooked, maybe, but made with the same hands that have weathered ten decades — and still know the rhythm of joy. The frosting wasn’t perfect, but then again, neither is life. That’s what makes it rich.
I may not have family in the traditional sense. But I have stories. I have memories that fill a room. I have neighbors who checked in. A nurse who hugged me tighter than words. A letter from a stranger who read something I once wrote.
I have love in my heart — and a homemade cake to prove it.
Being 100 doesn’t feel like an end. It feels like a quiet kind of triumph. A reminder that life, at its core, is made not of milestones or photos on mantels, but of the love we give — and the peace we make with the shape our lives take.
