32 Looks Good on Me (Even If I Had to Google What That Meant)

It's me. Turning 32.

And before anyone says it — no, 32 is not "basically 30." It is also not "almost 35." It is 32. Its own number. Its own era. Let it live.

I'll be honest. I didn't expect this birthday to hit the way it's hitting. Birthdays used to feel like a party with a countdown. Now they feel more like a checkpoint. Like the universe quietly tapping you on the shoulder and going, "Hey. You still here? Good. Let's talk."

So here I am. Talking.

32 years ago, a whole entire human being entered the world.

She was loud (allegedly), opinionated (confirmed), and completely unaware of everything that was coming. The good, the hard, the chaotic, the beautiful — all of it. Completely clueless.

Honestly? Adorable. I miss her confidence.

Because somewhere between then and now, life happened. And by "life happened," I mean really happened. Not the highlight reel. The whole messy, unfiltered director's cut.

There were years I survived when I wasn't sure I would.

There were seasons where I was holding it together on the outside and completely unraveling on the inside — still showing up, still smiling, still getting things done, while something underneath just quietly ached.

There were moments I was proud of and moments I'd rather not revisit. Decisions I made that made sense at the time and look completely unhinged in retrospect. (We don't need to name them. We all know what they are.)

And then there were the moments where I wasn't quietly unraveling anymore. I was exploding. On the outside. Loudly. In ways that scared me and probably scared the people around me too.

That's when the psych ward entered the chat.

I won't sugarcoat it — that was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. Nobody walks through those doors feeling like they've made a great decision. You walk through those doors because something finally forced you to stop and face what you'd been running from. And as scary as it was, as humbling as it was, as much as I never in a million years pictured that being part of my story — it was necessary.

Because here's the truth I had to sit with: if I didn't start taking care of myself, I was going to have nothing left to give. Not to the people I love. Not to my goals. Not to myself.

So I got the help. And I'm still here because of it.

Then there's the sobriety chapter.

527 days. 1 year, 5 months, and 11 days of being alcohol free — and not once regretting it.

It's not a destination, it's a daily choice. And every single day I make it, I choose myself a little harder than the day before.

If you're on the fence about making a change — any change — I'm not going to preach to you. I'll just say this: the version of you on the other side of that decision is worth meeting. I promise.

Now, let's talk about something else entirely.

I am 4/20 friendly. Have been. Will continue to be. And I will probably die on this hill peacefully, calmly, with snacks nearby.

Here's my argument, and it's simple: I have met a lot of angry drunks in my life. A lot. But I have never — not once — met an angry pothead.

Not one. They're out here watching nature documentaries, eating cereal at 11pm, and telling you your energy is really good tonight. Nobody is starting fights. Nobody is knocking anything over. Everyone is just... vibing.

I'm not here to tell anyone what to do with their body. But I will say that swapping one for the other has done more for my peace of mind than any motivational quote ever could.

Just saying.

Then there's the loss.

Birthdays have a way of making you feel the empty seats more than usual. And this one is no different.

Spike — my uncle, my people — is someone I carry with me every single day. The kind of person who leaves a mark on a room just by being in it, and leaves an even bigger one when he's gone. Grief doesn't really go away. You just learn to make space for it alongside everything else.

And then there's Piper.

My girl. My dog. My 10-year-old best friend who was, without question, the best thing that ever happened to me. People who haven't loved a pet the way I loved her might not fully understand — and that's okay. But she wasn't just a dog. She was my child. She was my comfort and my constant, and the house has been quieter in a way that words don't quite cover since she's been gone.

I miss them both. Every day. In the small moments especially — the ones where you instinctively reach for someone who isn't there anymore.

But here's where the light comes in.

Thomas. Nathan. Chase.

My brothers. My people. The ones who remind me, just by existing, that love doesn't leave even when people do. This past year has shown me just how much they mean to me — and I mean that in the best, fullest way possible. I don't take them for granted. Not anymore. Not even a little.

Loss has a way of teaching you to hold tighter to what you still have. And I am holding on.

32 feels different because I finally stopped pretending.

I stopped pretending to be fine when I wasn't. I stopped pretending that asking for help was weakness. I stopped pretending that the version of me that struggled was somehow less worthy than the version of me that had it together.

Spoiler: I rarely have it together. And apparently, that's okay.

This past year especially has been one long, uncomfortable, necessary lesson in honesty — with doctors, with the people I love, and most terrifyingly, with myself. What I can tell you is that on the other side of all that honesty?

I feel more like myself than I have in years.

Still a work in progress. Still figuring things out. Still occasionally Googling things I probably should have known by now. But myself.

Things 32-year-old Brittany knows that 22-year-old Brittany did not:

Your mental health is not a personality flaw. Rest is not laziness. Not everyone deserves access to you. Therapy is cool. Saying no is a complete sentence. Skin care matters (I cannot stress this enough). And the people who show up for you in the ugly seasons — hold onto them like they are rare, because they are.

I don't know exactly what this year holds.

More school. More growth. More moments I'll have to choose between fear and forward. More days where I'll probably have to remind myself that slow progress is still progress.

But I'm walking into 32 with something I didn't always have:

Hope. And the audacity to believe it.

So here's to 32.

To getting louder about the things that matter. To choosing honesty over performance. To celebrating the fact that surviving something hard and choosing to keep going anyway is genuinely, quietly, a form of bravery.

And to cake. Always to cake.

Happy birthday to me. 🎂

— Brittany Click, Spill, Repeat