MARCH

March is a funny month.

It can’t decide if it’s winter or spring. One day we’re scraping ice off the windshield, the next day we’re daring to crack a window open because it smells like thawing earth. And right in the middle of that unpredictable, muddy, hopeful season… is St. Patrick’s Day.

Green everywhere. Shamrocks taped to windows. Kids in dollar-store headbands with glittery clovers bouncing around like they’ve had three juice boxes too many.

And then, two days later, March 19^th,  is my daughter’s birthday. This year she turns 27. Twenty-seven. That number feels grown up in a way I’m still catching up to.

The Wink

When she was born in 1999, something happened that I’ve never forgotten.

Our local town paper came out that week and right there on the front page was a photo from daycare taken earlier of her older sister and her little friend dressed head to toe in green, holding up a giant shamrock for St. Patrick’s Day. The timing was pure coincidence. But it didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt like a wink. Like the universe saying, “Here she is. She’s arriving right in the middle of the green.” Two days after the shamrocks. Two days after the parades. Two days after everyone’s talking about luck. And I remember thinking, maybe this little girl will need a little extra luck in her life. What I didn’t know then was that she wouldn’t need luck. She would be the luck.

The Celebration

St. Patrick’s Day is about Irish heritage, celebration, resilience.

Fun fact: In Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day used to be a religious feast day and for years pubs were actually closed on March 17^th . Imagine that, the quietest St. Paddy’s Day ever. It wasn’t until later that it became the lively celebration we know today. Also? The colour originally associated with St. Patrick wasn’t green, it was blue. Green took over because of Ireland’s nickname, The Emerald Isle. And shamrocks? They symbolize growth, renewal, and (traditionally) the Holy Trinity. Growth. Renewal. Resilience. That part always lands with me. Because raising a neurodiverse child is its own version of those three words.

The Kind of Motherhood That Changes You

When my daughter was born, I didn’t know yet what our path would look like. I didn’t know the sleepless nights would stretch into years. I didn’t know anxiety would sometimes sit in her tiny body like it was renting space. I didn’t know I would become an advocate, a scheduler, a researcher, a fierce protector, a human weighted blanket, and occasionally… a referee.

I just knew I loved her. That part was immediate and uncomplicated. Everything else came in waves. There were milestones that came differently. Conversations that didn’t follow the script. Moments where I questioned everything. And then there were the green moments. The hopeful ones. The ones where she would light up a room with her sunny personality and greet strangers across the street like they were long-lost cousins. (She still does that, by the way. Fame in our community is mostly based on how loudly you say hello.)

Shamrocks

There’s something about shamrocks that fits her. Three leaves. One stem. Different parts, connected. She sees the world differently. Processes it differently. Feels it deeply. But it’s all connected to the same root, a heart that is pure and open in ways many of us forget how to be.

Fun fact: According to Statistics Canada, about 27% of Canadians aged 15 and over have at least one disability. That’s more than 1 in 4 people. So, when we talk about inclusion, we’re not talking about “a few.” We’re talking about us. Our neighbours. Our families. We’re talking about my daughter. We’re talking about someone’s March 19^th  baby.

The Luck

People love to say “the luck of the Irish.” But here’s what I’ve learned over 27 years. Luck has very little to do with it. What looks like luck from the outside is usually: relentless love, exhausting commitment, uncomfortable growth, choosing patience again and again, advocating when you’re bone-tired, celebrating wins that others might overlook It’s not flashy. It’s not parade-worthy. It’s not always Instagram-pretty. But it’s real. And honestly? It’s stronger than luck.

Twenty-Seven Years Later

She’s 27 now. There’s still green in March. Still shamrocks in the windows. Still people posting selfies in bright sweaters. And here we are, celebrating another year of her life. A life that hasn’t followed a conventional script. A life that has stretched me in ways I didn’t volunteer for but wouldn’t trade. A life that has taught me about sensory overload, emotional intensity, loyalty, humour, stubbornness, and resilience.

And love. So much love.

If I could go back to that March in 1999, to that hospital room, to that tiny baby, I would whisper: “You are going to be exactly who you are meant to be. Not easier. Not simpler. Not less intense. Exactly you."

Why I Love That She’s a March Baby

March is messy. It’s not polished like June. It’s not cozy like December. It’s not fresh and perfect like April. It’s slushy. It’s unpredictable. It’s trying to thaw. But it carries hope. You can feel spring coming, even when there’s still snow on the ground. And that feels symbolic. Because raising her has been a lot like March. Messy.  Unpredictable. Sometimes cold. Often hopeful. And always, always moving toward growth.

This Year

So, this year, we’ll probably blend it. A little green. A birthday cake. Maybe shamrock decorations just because. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ll still see that newspaper front page from 1999, her big sister holding up that shamrock like a banner. It’s funny how life layers itself like that. One child in green on the cover. One child arriving two days later. One mother who had no idea how much her heart would expand.

If You’re Raising a March Baby Too

Or a neurodiverse adult. Or a child who does life a little differently. Here’s what I know for sure: There is nothing “less than” about a different path. There is depth in it. There is character in it. There is a kind of strength that doesn’t shout but endures. And sometimes, when the timing lines up just right, the shamrocks show up as a reminder. Growth. Resilience. Renewal.

Twenty-seven years later, I don’t see luck. I see grit. I see love. I see a young woman who continues to teach me that different doesn’t mean broken. It means uniquely wired. Uniquely bright. Uniquely ours.

Happy-St-Patrick’s-Day. Happy March 19^th. Happy 27 years to the girl who changed my world in the best possible way, who was never meant to fit a mold but to shine in her own way, who has taught me more about strength than any book ever could, and who has stretched my heart wider than I ever thought possible.