On your twenty-first birthday, I didn’t know you. (Although in the next few weeks, we’d catch each other’s eye and share our first kiss on a dance floor in November.) I remember hearing stories of your birthday, though. My roommate recounted the raucous good time but I didn’t recognize you in the stories; your name wasn’t yet etched on my heart. I look back on old photos –non digital ones, can you imagine? – of all the bottles of champagne lined up in your dorm, listen to those same stories my roommate told me, and marvel at the fact that there was a time before I knew you. Twenty-odd years without you in my life. It’s hard to believe you weren’t always there, somewhere, whispering in the shadows.

When you turned twenty-three, we’d just moved to a new city in a new state. We’d been living together for just a couple of months. You were jobless, twisting. Building Target furniture from boxes while I went to classes and made friends. That was the year I anguished over poems and slammed the door to my bedroom to keep you out while I wrote. It was a year of yelling and getting to know each other’s foibles. It was the year you started pre-med classes – the first rung on the ladder we’re still climbing.

On your twenty-fifth birthday, you were a couple months into medical school. Once again, we’d just moved to a new city in a new state. I fresh out of grad school, teaching college composition and freelancing to make ends meet. You were busy making friends and learning the inner-workings of the brain. That year, you and I took a step away from each other. You were a student; I was a “grown up” with a job. You were still chewing over the possibility of marriage; I was ready to take a leap into forever with you.

When you turned twenty-six, we hadn’t yet been engaged for an entire month. We were giddy with this new stage of our relationship. We’d walk hand and hand through the surrounding neighborhoods, picturing our future, dreaming, head over heels in love with the idea of us. That was the year you made your first real forays into patient care, the year I sat on the edge of my bed and let you look in my ears and test my knees and ankles for reflexes.

For your twenty-ninth birthday, we were – once again – in a new city, in a new state. You were a few months into your residency internship. We hadn’t yet been married a year. I got you your favorite present ever – an iPod touch – and we went to Chicago for a birthday weekend with your family. This was the year we had to learn new independence as well as new dependencies. My career changed course; yours began. We found new pleasure in the few hours we could grab together. I saw, as though for the first time, how kind you are, how strong, how wise. My pride in your accomplishments, your quiet confidence, your compassionate nature… my appreciation for you… my love – they swallowed me whole.

Now, on your thirtieth birthday, I can’t help but look back at the past nine years and marvel at how quickly they’ve slipped past.

The whole time, I’ve loved you. I can’t wait to see what the year, the decade ahead has in store.