Birthday Wishes

The kitchen was crowded, the way I love it—warm, noisy, and filled with the people who mean the most to me. My husband of 33 years stood beside me, three of our four daughters (because you know how hard it is to get everyone together), leaned against the counter, their serious boyfriends close by, and my 6-year-old granddaughter jumping with excitement.

It was tradition. Every year, no matter what, we gathered in the kitchen for cake, candles, and the off-key, enthusiastic chorus of “Happy Birthday.” And this year was no different—until it was.

As the song began, I smiled, waiting for the usual swell of voices. But when they reached the line:

“Happy birthday dear…”

I heard something I hadn’t noticed before.

My granddaughter sang out “GiGi” without hesitation.

My daughters, instinctively, called me “Mom.”

One of the boyfriends, not quite sure, mumbled “Mrs. S.”

And my husband, with a soft, knowing smile, simply said Dovey, one of his many pet names for me.

I had never been sung to in so many different ways.

And in that moment, it hit me.

For decades, I’ve answered to these names—wife, mom, Gigi. Each one represents a part of me, a role I hold, a love I carry. But the woman beneath them? The one who existed before the names and will still be here when they shift and change?

She’s still here, too.

As I blew out the candles, I made my wish.

To keep embracing all the names I’m called… while never forgetting the one that belongs to just me.

As the last note of “Happy Birthday” faded, I stood there for a moment, holding my breath before blowing out the candles. The song was over, but the echo of all the names lingered.

I stared at the flickering flames and felt the familiar tug of a question I’d carried for a while—one that seems to whisper a little louder in midlife:

“Who am I, really?”

For years, my identity had been defined by the people I love—Mom, Gigi, Wife. Beautiful names. Sacred names. But still, names given to me by others. And as much as I cherish them, I couldn’t shake the realization that there was another name I had forgotten: my own.

It’s a common question for women in midlife. We pour so much of ourselves into nurturing, supporting, and caring for others that we often drift further and further from the woman we once were—the woman we still are beneath the roles. The woman with her own dreams, desires, and longings.

That’s where the Enneagram found me.

It gave me more than a number or a type—it gave me a mirror. It revealed the motivations behind the masks I wear. It helped me see the patterns I had been repeating for years—sometimes out of love, sometimes out of fear. It named my strengths but also illuminated the ways I shrink myself.

.The Achiever in me craves accomplishment, sometimes tying my worth to productivity.

But the Enneagram didn’t just name the patterns—it showed me the path back to my true self.

It reminded me that beneath the roles, I am still whole. My worth isn’t defined by what I do for others. It simply is. I am more than the names they sing—I am the woman who lives beneath them, with passions, purpose, and dreams that still matter.

So, as I blew out my candles, I made my wish.

To keep saying yes to the roles I love and to keep saying yes to ME.