This year, my birthday was quiet—intentionally so. We’d had some sad news in the family, and celebrating didn’t feel right. I didn’t want cake or candles or noise. Instead, I chose something gentle: a walk through Arger Fen with my sweet dog Jessie. It’s our favorite place, especially in autumn when the leaves turn golden and the air smells like earth and memory. Jessie trotted ahead, tail wagging, nose twitching at every fallen leaf. I followed slowly, letting the silence settle around me. It wasn’t festive, but it felt healing. Nature has a way of holding space for grief.
As we wandered deeper into the woods, I spotted something small and magical—a perfect red toadstool, tucked beneath a tree. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, the kind of mushroom you’d expect a sprite to perch on. I stopped, smiled, and felt something shift inside me. It was such a tiny thing, but it made my day. In that moment, I felt seen by the forest, like it had offered me a little birthday gift. Jessie sniffed it curiously, then flopped down beside me, her fluffy head resting on a pile of leaves.
I took a photo, of course. Not just to remember the toadstool, but to remember how it made me feel—quietly joyful, unexpectedly comforted. It reminded me that even on heavy days, beauty finds a way through. I hadn’t expected anything from this birthday, but the woods gave me something better than balloons or presents. They gave me peace. Jessie, ever the loyal companion, seemed to understand. She didn’t bark or tug or chase squirrels. She just stayed close, like she knew I needed stillness more than celebration.
Grief has a strange rhythm. It doesn’t care about calendars or milestones. It shows up uninvited and lingers longer than you expect. But walking through Arger Fen reminded me that healing doesn’t have to be loud. It can be soft, slow, and full of small wonders. That toadstool was a symbol—not just of nature’s whimsy, but of resilience. Even in the shadow of sadness, something bright and unexpected can appear. You just have to be willing to look down, pause, and notice.
Jessie’s presence made it all the more special. She’s getting older now, and our walks have become more meaningful. Watching her sniff the air and bounce through leaves reminded me that joy still exists, even when your heart feels heavy. She didn’t care that it was my birthday or that I was sad. She just wanted to be with me. And honestly, that was the best gift I could’ve asked for. A quiet walk, a loyal dog, and a fairy toadstool—proof that magic still lives in the mundane.
So no, my birthday wasn’t exciting. But it was real. And in a year marked by loss, that mattered more than anything. I’ll remember that walk for a long time—not because it was grand, but because it was honest. Sometimes, the best celebrations are the ones that meet you where you are. And sometimes, healing looks like a mushroom in the woods and a dog who doesn’t ask questions—just walks beside you, one leaf-crunching step at a time.
