On the morning of my 58th birthday, I woke up in my old bedroom at my parent’s house. The one where my model horse collection had been displayed on the bookshelves. The one where I’d make an 8th grade nightly call to Kathy Schinner to plan out our outfits for the following day. The one where in 1982 I’d blast Journey on my stereo so that the cute neighbor boy who mowed our lawn would know how cool I was. 

On the morning of my 58th birthday my mom woke up before me and poured batter into a frying pan to cook me special pancakes. This was not something she’d ever done when I was a kid.

They were scorched on one side, but there was enough there to scrape away the good bits and feed myself. 

Not so much unlike my childhood. 

The secret to happiness, it turns out, is not to deny that the burns exist, but to choose to enjoy what’s on the unburned side.