maybe it is a big deal

“It’s not an important birthday.”

“We can celebrate next year.”

“It’s no big deal.”

Those are often our first responses when joy knocks on our door.

And honestly, it makes sense. I have said those words myself many times.

Celebrating takes time – time we often think would be better served on the things we need to do. It can feel hard to raise a glass when the world itself feels heavy. Hard to pause for fun when someone you love is struggling.

And truthfully, sometimes celebration can feel too lavish. Too indulgent. Too privileged.

So, we minimize. Delay. Downplay.

We tell ourselves we will celebrate later – when things are fixed, calmer, clearer, easier.

But life has a way of reminding us that later is never guaranteed. And maybe that is exactly why celebration matters.

Not necessarily the giant milestone kind. No fireworks and Champagne and confetti cannons and long, amusing roasts and toasts (although those are important, too).

I think it starts smaller than that.

One day of sobriety.

A perfect reverse corner (and for the non-squash players, trust me – this is worth celebrating).

An hour without pain.

A child who made it through a hard week.

Parallel parking on the first try.

A marriage that survived a rough season.

A clean scan.

The warm sun after endless rainy, raw days.

Sometimes we have to dig deep for the things worth celebrating, because not all victories arrive carrying balloons.

Some arrive without fanfare - and yet, they matter enormously.

The older I get, the more I suspect that those small victories are the ones that deserve the most reverence.

When our son Sargeant was a baby, it became clear early on that he would not be reaching the normal developmental milestones that other healthy children achieve. And yes, this was difficult and painful for all of us to accept.

But a wise occupational therapist taught us to shift our expectations and notice the small Sargeant triumphs – turning his head toward the sound of his name, having a day without seizures, responding in some quiet way that reminded us he was there, that he was trying, that he was a miracle.

She taught us to celebrate that.

And in doing so, she taught me something I have carried ever since – what seems routine for one person may be a tremendous victory for another.

That lesson showed up again years later, in a much more commonplace setting. After a term of academic struggle, one of our sons got a good grade on a small math quiz. Nothing epic, nothing anyone else would have framed or posted or even remembered.

But for him, it made a difference. It gave him a foothold. And then, almost magically, another good grade followed. He gained momentum.

His teacher told me that success breeds success. I think hope does too. And light has a way of finding more light.

These are not just pretty words. They are truths.

Maybe part of the challenge is changing the narrative we tell ourselves. Learning to count the wins – even the trivial, unimpressive, deeply personal ones that nobody posts about.

Especially those.

Last week, one of our kids came home from his ten-year high school reunion and used the phrase “glow up” to describe a few classmates. People who, in the years since graduation, had grown into interesting, confident adults – maybe even surprisingly so.

Positive transformation.

I had never really heard the term “glow up,” but I liked it.

And so, naturally, I started considering my own glow ups.

A repaired relationship I thought had no legs.

Reprioritizing my time to include the things that actually matter to me.

Learning, slowly and imperfectly, not to measure my life only by the things I got wrong and the things left undone.

There is value in acknowledging our own glow ups instead of constantly tracking our missteps, failures, and – another term I have learned from our kids and frankly love – dumpster fires.

The glow ups are worth celebrating.

Not because larger problems have disappeared. But because growth has somehow managed to happen alongside them.

A shift occurs when we start to celebrate the wins, no matter how small. Our brains rewire and start to look for the good – the success, the light – rather than scanning only for the negative, the challenge, and those dumpster fires.

And then there are the moments with no particular occasion at all – friends or family gathered over dinner, or everyone lounging in sweats watching college lacrosse on a rainy afternoon (yes, I am slightly obsessed) when somewhere along the way we realize that this, too, is special. This, too, is worth noticing.

The thing we first thought of as ordinary is actually extraordinary.

The dogs are smiling and circling the snacks. The mood is relaxed. No expectations. Nothing monumental. Bigger worries may still be waiting for us the next morning.

But, for that moment, all is good in our world.

Warm. Easy. Full.

Maybe that is what celebration really is. Not denial. Not pretending life is easier than it is.

But a deliberate decision to notice that, in the middle of it all, there is still something worth honoring.

Celebration becomes less about denying hardship and more about refusing to let hardship have the final word.

It is an act of hope. A small rebellion against despair.

It really is worth our time.

The unimportant birthday, the clean scan, the hard week survived, the smiling dogs, the turn of a sick baby’s head to the sound of our voice, the tiny glow up no one else saw – all of it matters.

So let’s take the time to celebrate, in small and BIG ways. Not because life is perfect, but because something good is still here.

P.S. Happy 60th, Susan!