There are birthdays you look forward to, birthdays you try to ignore, and then there are birthdays that quietly ask you to become someone new. This year was that birthday for me.

Thirty-six was one of the most beautiful years of my life, but it was also one of the hardest. Professionally, I watched dreams I’d been working toward for years begin to take shape. My photography business continued to grow, I purchased my Tesla, created work I’m genuinely proud of, and felt like I was finally stepping into the career I’d always envisioned for myself.

At the very same time, I was watching one of the people I loved most slowly slip away.

Over the course of the year, I watched my best friend’s health decline until she passed away in December. Since then, life has been filled with firsts. The first holiday. The first random moment where I instinctively reached for my phone before remembering I couldn’t text her. And eventually, the first birthday without the person who always made sure I never spent it feeling forgotten.

Birthdays have always made me emotional. If you know me, you know that isn’t exactly new. More often than not, I’d end up somewhere crying before the day was over. But somehow, she always found a way to pull me back into celebration.

I think about the year I photographed a wedding on my birthday. I had every intention of going home afterward, climbing into bed, and calling it a night. She absolutely refused to let me do that. Instead, she dragged me to a little bar, just the two of us, and somehow turned an ordinary night into one of my favorite birthdays.

Then there was the year I lost my mom. I didn’t have the emotional capacity to celebrate anything. Without me asking, she gathered our entire friend group because she knew exactly what I needed before I could even admit it to myself. She carried the weight of celebration when I couldn’t.

That’s just who she was.

So when this birthday came around, I kept asking myself one question: What would Keisha want me to do?

The answer was obvious.

She would want me to celebrate.

Not because grief suddenly disappears. Not because life magically feels lighter. But because she understood something I’ve been slowly learning myself: joy and grief are allowed to exist in the same room.

So this year, I made it my mission to celebrate myself. I booked the studio. I bought the cake. I took these photos. I said yes when friends wanted to take me out to dinner. I accepted every birthday wish instead of brushing it aside. I let myself feel loved.

For the first time, I wasn’t waiting for someone else to create the celebration. I created it for myself.

Looking back, that’s really what these photos represent. They aren’t just birthday portraits. They’re proof that healing doesn’t always happen in grand, dramatic moments. Sometimes healing looks like buying yourself a cake. Sometimes it looks like showing up for yourself the same way someone else once showed up for you.

Thirty-six taught me that success and sorrow can coexist. It taught me that some of my biggest career wins could happen during one of the hardest seasons of my life. It taught me that grief doesn’t cancel gratitude, and gratitude doesn’t erase grief.

As I step into 37, I’m not asking for everything to be perfect. I’m praying for peace. For love. For acceptance. For the courage to keep celebrating life, even when it feels complicated.

And I hope, wherever she is, she’s smiling because I finally did exactly what she would’ve wanted.