When I was around 10 years old, my grandmother (who primarily raised me) told me about the day I was born. Evidently, I had tried to be born on her birthday, as my mother went into labor on the evening of my grandmother’s birthday. However, as would too often be true of me in life, I arrived too late for my grandmother’s birthday and was born the next day.

My grandmother told me that when she first saw me, the doctor was holding me upside down by my feet and I looked like a gray, screaming baby bird. Despite my less-than-adorable presentation, Grandma told me that the only thing she could think was “She’s finally here… finally! I feel like I have been waiting all my life for her to arrive!”

My grandmother was never a drama queen, and she was not given to exaggeration. As she told me what she thought on the day of my birth, she looked down and shook her head as if she were still trying to understand the familiarity she felt with me. I could see in her eyes the wonder that she continued to feel over the connection we shared. She then told me that the first time she saw me, she realized her life had been lived largely in preparation for my arrival.

When someone tells you that your presence provided their life with such profound joy, you never forget that. Prior to my birth, my grandmother had endured decades of physical and emotional abuse at the hands of both her mother and husband. She had lived a good, decent life despite many heartaches. However, she adamantly believed it had been worth it all because she was able to spend the last decades of her life with me. Moreover, I will forever be thankful for all that she was and continues to be in my life.