Growing up, I didn’t have a sister. As previously discussed I haven’t always been good at being friends with women. And maybe it’s because I wasn’t ready. But maybe it’s also because it took time for me to meet my people. My person.

My James.

Is this one of those sappy reflection posts? Maybe? Is this one of those oh no we’re all on lockdown when will it end posts? Not really but maybe kind of? Is this a love letter to the bestie-sister I never dreamed I’d have?

Yes. It’s that.

When I met James all those years ago I fan-girled over her. She fan-girled over me. We were nervous and anxious and awkward and weird. Introverts seeking connection without the gumption to tell one another. And so it took a while for us to fall into what now seems like the most natural state of love and friendship I’ve been fortunate enough to have.

Most years I wake up happy on your birthday, James. Happy and excited to have an adventure. To have brunch, see art, wander gardens, drink too much, eat decadent food, laugh, love, and stick my tongue out at the camera with you. This morning I woke up sad because I’ll be missing all of that. And you.

Friend doesn’t seem a big enough word for what you mean to me and today I want to tell you (and all of the world that will listen) that I love you.

Happy birthday to you my beautiful, whimsical, insanely smart, neurotic, soulful, kind, spectacular person. I love you.