when am I?

I got to reconnect with a good, old friend yesterday - one of the dear pets I had forgotten to tell about my pregnancy and little L's dramatic entrance to life. She seemed to appreciate the trauma of our NICU experience more and more as our conversation carried on. That evening, she wrote me a beautiful email about how astonished both she and her little 5 year old daughter were about just how tiny L was when he was born.
Our conversation showed me how far I've come since L was first born, in that I was able to talk about his birth without getting too emotional. She asked me at one point how old I was and, admittedly, I didn't know. On this past birthday, I "celebrated" in the NICU with my baby, other parents whose children were in our room and L's nurses and doctors. I somehow found the time and energy to bake everyone cookies (this is German tradition. you basically bribe people with sweets so they have to tell you happy birthday if they want some.) and S and I went to a Christmas market in the evening, where I had one mulled wine and a sausage. It wasn't the worst birthday I've ever had (that's a tie between my second and ninth grade birthdays, when not one person came to my party and my only friend went to my ex-best friend's party instead of hanging out with me, respectively), mainly because I don't really give a shit about birthdays any more. It's safe to say it wasn't the best birthday either. Still, I was shocked to realize my last birthday was of so little consequence to me that I'd completely forgotten how old I was. SPOILER: I am 33.
I held it together talking about his NICU stay but that email? Man, I sobbed like a baby. I may have come a long way, but I know I am not over it. Not that crying is necessarily proof that you're not over something, but it's usually a good indicator. I was talking to a former classmate, who also had a baby in the NICU, about something similar. She was talking about how she and her husband still haven't recovered from their baby's birth and she's been home from the hospital for a year. I said I think recovery, if you are graced by its presence, is a miracle. I think most of the time it never comes. Yes, you can move on. Yes, you can carve out new grooves. But I don't know if things ever go back to the way they were. And really, they shouldn't. Honestly. What would be the point? If I survive some kind of trauma, I at least want to learn something from it. If I am not open to letting scary, painful things shape me, life will be a lot more uncomfortable and pointless than it already is.