My grandfather was a tall and humble man. By the time I came along, he was retired from the postal service. This meant I got to see Pop a lot. He took me to dance class, taught me how to play Monopoly, and watched game shows with me. He was an amazing father figure, but I never got the chance to have adult conversations about his life.

I knew he was in the Army. There was a handsome photo of him in his uniform. I think he was drafted into World War II. Before serving, he played on a minor-league baseball team.

I also knew he’d been wounded and received a Purple Heart. He was shot in the hip, so it bothered him the rest of his days and ended his baseball days.

I wish I’d had the chance to ask him about all these experiences. He was a brave man with layers of life-lived. I could have learned so much more from him.

Later, I found some tokens from the war. There are several documents about his service. There was also a Nazi pin and a letter from the Army authorizing him to take this object. I don’t know why it was in his possession. Maybe it was common, or maybe it was something he needed to do.

What I do know is that my Pop was the only dad I ever had. He loved me with all his heart. I always felt safe when I was with him.

After the war, he worked for the postal service for many years. My grandmother, a teacher, continued to receive his pension benefits after he passed.

I will not let his sacrifice be in vain. He deserves better than that, as do so many veterans. If my grandfather was brave enough to fight Nazis literally, I can be, too.

A birthday is just a day, right? It’s simply the anniversary of your birth. Is that celebratory? Maybe I can just celebrate the miracle of being alive against a lot of odds, some self-inflicted, others not.

My birthday brings about mixed emotions. Mostly, I’ve wanted to avoid it. There’s a long list of disappointments that led me to this apathy. I had this audacious hope that being the one to organize it would mean others would show up. I may have never felt so alone as on the weekend of my 40th birthday. I invited a small group of friends one year in advance, and I sat alone on the Friday afternoon. Later, two would join me.

My husband’s not great at birthdays either. He never had one growing up, which makes me sad on completely other levels. So, there’s no expectation now.

But I have the gift of memories of special days—parties, special homemade cakes, and presents. There was always a theme, and my granny baked me delicious cakes with calligraphy-style frosted birthday wishes. I was a lucky girl.

My mom let me know every day that I was the most important thing to her; my birthdays were what many kids would have dreamt of. It’s one of these small but meaningful things that kept me from being completely fucked up.

But, without her, the day has been sometimes a burden. Why even acknowledge it? I’ve had 27 birthdays without her. I’d rather forget the day. I have no madness or sadness about the many disappointments that have followed.

It’s for the simple fact that I used to be someone’s everything. Most of us have just been nothing.

As this birthday arrives, the country’s in chaos, rights are falling by the day, and evil is beaming. I have no birthday wish for myself. I need no candle to blow out, for there is a gushing fire in my soul to resist and fight.

When you’ve had at least one person in your life love you without conditions, no matter all the traumas that happened too, you can be brave. I hope my love for my small circle lets them be courageous.

A happy birthday isn’t necessary, but a life of freedom, equality and empathy is.