Last year, when I turned 34, I didn’t take my birthday pictures.

That might not sound like a big deal to anyone else, but for me, it was.

For years, taking birthday photos had become something I did for myself. I loved choosing the outfit, doing my hair and makeup, setting up the shoot, and creating something that marked another year of my life.

But last year, I didn’t want any of it.

I remember thinking:

What’s the point?

That’s too much.

I don’t want to dress up.

I don’t want to put on makeup.

I don’t want to do anything.

I just want to sleep on the couch.

And for the first time in years, I listened to that version of myself.

I didn’t do the photoshoot.

At the time, I was in a difficult place mentally. I was still trying to adjust to being on antidepressants, trying to understand myself again, and trying to find my way back to the woman I felt like I had somehow lost.

I wrote about some of those feelings in a letter to myself called “Learning to See Myself Again.”

If you want to know what 34 felt like for me, you can read that post here.

I didn’t know it then, but that birthday was the beginning of something.

Because sometimes growth doesn’t begin with feeling better.

Sometimes it begins with admitting that you’re not.

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And then came 35.

I wish I could tell you that I woke up on my 35th birthday completely transformed.

That I had everything figured out.

That I suddenly felt confident, energized, motivated, and completely like myself again.

I didn’t.

But I did notice something different.

I could see myself.

Not perfectly.

Not every day.

But more than I had before.

And when I look back at the year between 34 and 35, I realize just how much has changed.

I’m still on medication.

And I’m okay with that.

I’m pregnant with my second baby.

Liam is officially in school.

Our family is growing.

My motherhood looks different.

My days look different.

My body looks different.

My priorities have changed.

And somehow, through all of those changes, I have changed too.

Not into a completely different woman.

More like a woman who is finally starting to recognize herself again.

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34 was about surviving. 35 feels like becoming.

At 34, I was learning that growth doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.

Sometimes growth looks like getting through the day.

Sometimes it looks like asking for help.

Sometimes it looks like starting medication and giving yourself permission to see what happens.

Sometimes it looks like admitting that you don’t feel like yourself and trusting that doesn’t mean you’ll feel that way forever.

And sometimes growth looks like skipping the photoshoot.

I used to think that not showing up for myself meant I was failing myself.

But looking back, I don’t think that’s what happened.

I think 34-year-old me was doing the best she could.

She didn’t have the energy to put on the dress.

She didn’t want to do her makeup.

She didn’t want to stand in front of a camera and pretend she felt beautiful when she didn’t.

So she stayed home.

And maybe that was okay, too.

Because she needed rest before she needed a photograph.

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Somewhere along the way, I started creating again.

I think one of the biggest signs that something in me was changing was that I started making art again.

For a long time, there was a part of me that was afraid to really tap back into that side of myself.

I’ve always been creative.

Designing. Creating. Putting ideas together. Making things beautiful.

That has always been a part of me.

But somewhere along the way, motherhood, life, and simply trying to get through the day made that part of me quieter.

And when you’re already struggling to recognize yourself, sometimes the things that once made you you start to feel like too much work, too.

So I stopped.

Or at least, I stopped letting myself explore that side of me the way I used to.

But this past year, something shifted.

I started illustrating again.

And at first, it felt a little scary.

There was this tiny voice in the back of my mind asking:

Is this actually good?

Am I still creative?

What if I’ve lost that part of myself?

What if I’m not as good as I used to be?

But I kept going.

I started playing with ideas.

I started drawing.

I started creating illustrations just because I wanted to see what would happen when I gave myself permission to make something.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I realized something:

I wasn’t trying to become creative again.

I was realizing that I never stopped being creative.

I had just stopped giving that part of myself room to exist.

And maybe that’s what this year has really been about for me.

Making room.

Room for creativity.

Room for motherhood.

Room for my marriage.

Room for another baby.

Room for my own ideas.

Room for the woman underneath all the responsibilities.

My illustrations became one of the quietest ways I started finding myself again.

They weren’t some huge declaration that I’m back!

They were smaller than that.

A drawing here.

An idea there.

A little time spent creating something simply because I wanted to.

But those little moments mattered.

Because every time I sat down to create, I was reminding myself:

This is still a part of me.

And I think that’s something I’m carrying into 35.

I don’t want to only be the woman who takes care of everyone else.

I want to be the woman who still creates.

Who still dreams.

Who still has ideas.

Who still makes beautiful things just because she can.

Who lets herself be curious again.

Who isn’t afraid to explore the parts of herself she thought she’d outgrown.

Maybe growing doesn’t always mean becoming someone new.

Sometimes it means finding the pieces of yourself you left behind and realizing they were waiting for you all along.

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But this year, I wanted the photograph.

And that difference means more to me than the photograph itself.

This year, I wanted to get dressed.

I wanted to do my hair.

I wanted to take pictures.

I wanted to remember what 35 looked like.

Not because everything is perfect.

Not because I suddenly love every part of myself.

Not because motherhood became easier.

And certainly not because I have somehow figured out this whole life thing.

I wanted the pictures because I wanted to be present for my own life again.

I wanted to document this woman.

The mother of one who is about to become a mother of two.

The woman who is still figuring out what motherhood looks like as her first baby becomes a school-aged little boy.

The woman carrying another baby while simultaneously watching one chapter of motherhood close and another begin.

The woman who has spent years pouring into everyone else and is learning that she is still allowed to pour something back into herself.

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35 looks different.

Four years ago, I was learning how to become Liam’s mom.

Now I’m preparing to become a mom of two.

There are school drop-offs and pickups.

There are pregnancy symptoms and appointments.

There are therapy days, messy days, emotional days, ordinary days.

There are moments where I feel completely overwhelmed.

And there are moments where I stop and think,

How did I get here?

Because this isn’t necessarily the life I imagined when I pictured 35.

But it is a life I am incredibly grateful to be living.

And maybe that’s another thing I’ve learned this year:

We spend so much time waiting for life to look the way we imagined it would that we forget to notice when the life in front of us is beautiful in its own way.

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I think that’s what this birthday photoshoot really means to me.

It’s not about proving that I’m back.

It’s not about pretending last year didn’t happen.

It’s not even about looking beautiful in a photograph.

It’s about looking at the woman in the picture and knowing what she has lived through.

I know what 34 felt like.

I know what it felt like to look in the mirror and not recognize myself.

I know what it felt like to not want to celebrate.

And now, one year later, I’m standing in front of that same camera again.

Different woman.

Same me.

Just a little more aware of who I am.

A little more gentle with myself.

A little more willing to take up space.

A little more willing to celebrate the woman behind all the roles she carries.

Because I am a mother.

I am a wife.

I am someone’s daughter.

I am someone’s friend.

I am the person who packs lunches, manages the house, schedules appointments, worries about everyone, remembers the little things, and keeps the days moving.

But underneath all of those roles…

I’m still Christina.

And I think 35 is the year I’m remembering that.

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