Every January first, I celebrate the New Year with the rest of the world in a blur of cheesy party glasses and champagne. But June is where I truly got my start. A rainy Sunday, June 2, marked my first day in the world, and June has treated me well, so well, ever since.

In June I flourish, trying on my new summer self with the satisfaction that I don’t have to think about giving her back just yet. Freckles dot my skin and a few stray strands of gold show up in my hair. The morning air is sweet and rich with roses, peonies and fresh grass. The evening air is silky and warm, beckoning me to step out and breathe it in.

In June, I lounge in the passenger seats of my friends’ cars, singing and savoring the newfound time we have together. My windowsill becomes cluttered with treasures from festivals and farmers’ markets and the beach; sea glass and books and sun-ripened tomatoes all lined up in a lovely mess. My hammock leaves its dusty shelf and collects fresh air in new places.

In June, I drink wine with my parents at street festivals and read books while the shadows around me grow longer. I fall asleep to rumbling summer storms and wake up to the newly cleansed cerulean sky. I trade office hour for happy hour, a backpack for a beach bag.

In June there is space to be as quiet and creative or loud and adventurous as I want. There is new time to spend as I please in the rose-gold, stretched out evenings. Conversations on roofs and porches can go as long as they’re meant to, not limited the next morning by a looming test or assignment.

June is shimmering, energizing, promising, rejuvenating. I’d live in it always if I could. The lilac flowers outside my house burst open and bloom, just as my parents said they did when they brought me home 21 years ago. I see them and smile, feeling wildly grateful for another trip around the sun.