I recently turned 29, the last year in the chapter of my life labeled my twenties, and I’m finding myself grieving and rebirthing. This isn’t unusual for me during my birthday. I was born on November 2, which in some Latine cultures marks the closing of Día de Muertos, a time when we welcome back the souls of our deceased relatives for a brief reunion and celebration. Each year around my birthday, I feel a shift happen, a sort of thinning of the veil between the physical and spiritual worlds. If I am feeling brave, I ask the universe, my ancestors, and my abuelita questions that have been diligently at the back of my mind. And when I listen intently, I receive their counsel.