I have two birthdays. The first is the day I entered the world, a date left unmarked because no man came to claim me. My true beginning was ignored, as though my life was not important enough to be recorded. Only when a hesitant father arrived did the hospital write my name into existence.

I used to be upset about having two birthdays, both of them largely forgotten or ignored. But I have learned that there are gifts only you can give yourself. 

If my first birthday was for piñatas and children’s laughter, the second belongs to something different. It is for the sensual, the sexual, the overwhelming desire to step into that charged space where another kind of magic takes hold.

So happy birthday, Yaira. Today is for you, to unwind, to undress, to walk in your skin unapologetic. To touch and be touched. To explore and surrender to yourself. 

Forty-seven years of life, and at last I have learned that the truest birthday is the one I give myself.