I turned 60 today. My husband Jonathan threw me a lovely birthday party over the weekend. The event was wonderful – just me surrounded by my eclectic bunch of beautiful, intelligent friends and colleagues. We had this gorgeous chocolate cake with my name written in perfect script – all spelled correctly, which isn’t always the case with “Geneiveve.”

Looking around the room that night, I couldn’t help but think about tables – the ones we’re born to and the ones we build. As I’ve written elsewhere in this blog, months after his death, my father came to me in a Caribbean hotel room with words I’ve carried with me ever since: “You think you’re in over your head, but you’re not.” After 60 years, I’ve still got my head above the waterline. Before we left for the party that night, while my nerves and anxiety were getting the best of me, his words surfaced again in my mind and gave me comfort and fortitude for the night to come.

Jonathan was there beside me at the party, of course. He’s forever my 6’8″ wall of stability who inspires me (and sometimes outright reminds me) to always take the high road. After loving him for almost 30 years, he still makes me feel like the luckiest woman alive. My daughter Lily and her husband Matt came to the party with Sam, my grandson, who is the center of my universe. While Sam didn’t really dig coming into Grandma’s party venue, he happily showed up at my side at one point to tell me Happy Birthday, that he was going home, and then gave me the sweetest kiss. We roll with it when it comes to Sam and I knew I’d see him at home later. Seven year olds can be that way sometimes and that’s okay.

Some people weren’t there. My son Christopher, who I fought so hard for as a very young mother, is going through his own thing now. He’s not speaking to me, and yes, it hurts – it hurts like hell. But it is what it is. Part of me is sad, part of me is angry – but knowing that life is so finite and each day that passes is another day where he’s not in my life is a loss to me. Our life stories aren’t written in stone until that final day and I hope that we reconnect when he’s ready to do so.

The thing about building your own table is that everyone sitting there has chosen to be there. No one’s showing up out of obligation, duty or blood loyalty. They’re there because they want to be, because they see you for who you are and love you anyway. That’s worth more than any inherited family jewels or china. There was an accordionist at this party and she played music in both English and French and my friends and I sang and laughed and enjoyed quite an evening.

So here I am at 60. Working on my memoir, planning the next chapter, and trying to turn all this chaotic passion for life and love and adventure and connections and 60 years worth of experience into something that might help someone else who’s struggling. I’ve stopped expecting too much from the wrong people and have tried to amp up appreciating the hell out of the right ones.

Would my 17-year-old self with her brand new baby son recognize the woman I’ve become? I hope who I am, what I do, who I love and how I conduct myself would impress her and make her smile, bemused and relieved. I think she’d be glad to know we survived. The circle continues, broken in some places, but stronger in others. Not bad for sixty years of figuring it out as I go along. Love, Gen