It's My Birthday, and Would You Please Support Artists?

It's my one simple request — find and fund an artist

Apr 06, 2026

I turned 60 yesterday, so I’m going to call on OLP (Old Lady Privilege) and switch things up today. Instead of sharing a narrative slice of my life with you—something I see as a bridge to better understanding between humans—I’m going to post a sort of mission statement.

But first, because I can’t help myself, a little personal history.

On my sixth birthday, I ask for a party. I’m an introvert. I’ve always been shy in new social situations even though I’m outgoing and loquacious (and sometimes use big words like “loquacious”) with people I know. But part of me still has the very human need to be celebrated now and again. And a party seemed like a means to that end, so I’d asked my mom if I could have one.

I was just turning six, so I wasn’t in on the adult workings of party planning. I’ve never been quite sure what went wrong and the whole ordeal was too humiliating to talk about or write into family lore. Maybe Mom didn’t get invitations out on time. Maybe my birthday was too close to Easter. Or maybe the kids Mom invited to my party just universally said, “Nah, I don’t even like her.” Because no one came. I have a photograph of me sitting in the spring green flower girl dress I wore for my aunt and uncle’s wedding, in my grandma’s living room, giving my best pained birthday girl smile. Alone.

And then I’m 13. We’re celebrating my birthday at my grandparent’s place, and Gramps doesn’t look so good. He’s sweating despite the chill, and he keeps flexing his arm and massaging his chest. So instead of lighting candles and singing “Happy Birthday,” we rush him to the hospital. He’s had a heart attack. And a few days later he has a quadruple bypass.

Now, flash forward again. We’re having a little 18th birthday gathering at my family’s farm. My grandparents usually ride together, but in this case, they take separate cars so Gramps can drive in directly from work.

Gramps doesn’t show up. Dinner grows cold on the table, and my cake sits forlorn on the counter covered in 18 unlit candles. Later, he’ll call, lost and confused. He’s had some sort of “troubles with his insulin.” Mom drives to find him. He’s OK, thank the gods.

So, I’m kind of accustomed to bad things happening on my birthday. Even if your own birthdays have always been lovely, if you google “bad things that happened in history on [your birthdate],” bad things have almost certainly happened on yours, too. My own grandma effectively stopped celebrating her annual age-up because Gramps died of a heart attack in his sleep the day before her birthday. I realize I’m not special. I just happened to get a no-show and two health crises (for the person I loved most dearly) on my Special Day.

And then there’s my birthday yesterday (also Easter), when a mentally unstable demagogue took to X first thing in the morning and posted this rant:

Ah, there’s nothing like a little war crime first thing in the morning, am I right? Thank you for your attention to this matter. (Side note: I’m not even sure DJT wrote this because the fuckin’ spelling is too on-point. But whatever.)

It’s time to reframe my whole Bad Things Happen on My Birthday worldview.

Because I’ve had enough of… all that.

Instead, just like the story of Jesus in the Temple with the moneychangers—which is decidedly a pre-Easter event, but I’m going to roll with it—I’m ready to turn some tables. Or at least flip the script.

Instead of giving my energy to the insane demagogue sitting in the Oval Office, I’m sitting here at my desk watching swallows swooping and diving and looking for places to nest outside my window. And I realize that despite all of the horrible things that are happening around us, the world is still beautiful.

People are complicated, messy creatures. Collectively, we’re tribal, fearful, young. I think we keep forgetting just how young humanity is in comparison to the rest of the cosmos. We’re toddlers, just starting to walk and talk. And any parent knows that as a toddler makes discoveries about the world, she or he also starts to develop agency. The word “no!” appears pretty early in every toddler’s vocabulary. Opinions form along with a need for autonomy.

Every toddler is capable of being loving, sweet, and profoundly beautiful.

Every toddler is also capable of being completely unhinged.

And that’s us. We’re still learning how to move and operate and collaborate in this world. We’re not very good at it yet, but we’ll get there. Eventually. If we survive.

But there’s one group of people trying to bring some beauty into this world on the regular—artists. Visual artists, yes, but also poets, writers, theater artists, musicians, even gardeners who paint the landscape with plants. They keep bringing beauty into the world not just despite the bad things that happen, but often because of them.

Artists make us cry, laugh, ponder, dream.

We “fund the arts” in big flashy ways, which is important and necessary because arts organizations need help now more than ever. And that funding absolutely helps some individual artists through grant programs and residencies. But there are scores of others quietly bringing art into the world in their own small ways, just trying to survive in a society where it’s increasingly difficult to do so, especially as an artist.

The mission I’m asking you to undertake today is simple: Find an artist you love, and then fund them.

Not in a big flashy way, but in a small one. Because small gestures add up.

I’m a writer, but I still don’t quite have the words for the lifted, buoyant feeling I get every time I’m notified that someone thinks my narrative art here on Substack is worth $5 a month.

That simple encouragement is pure artistic fuel.

Sometimes it means groceries. Sometimes it means I can buy something small I’ve been putting off. A new plant. A carton of strawberries. The little things you quietly stop allowing yourself when money is tight.

You probably spend more than $5 a month on a streaming service without thinking about it. What if, instead, you picked one artist and supported them? Not a platform. Not a company. A person.

Someone out there is making something—writing, music, art—and wondering if it matters. Wondering if they should keep going.

You don’t have to fund a bunch of people. Just one.

Find someone whose work you like.

Subscribe.

Become a patron.

It matters more than you think.

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