Some people claim a day.
Some people claim a week.
I, being a New Yorker with a flair for the dramatic, claim a month for my birthday. A whole 30-day festival of me. I highly recommend it.

In my generous spirit, I also allow others to have a birthday month.
Whether they choose to claim it is their business, but the calendar and I stand ready.

And November? November belongs to my mother.

She was a Scorpio through and through. She was loyal, passionate, sharp as a stinger and twice as formidable when necessary.
She passed away a decade ago, but her birthday still pulses through November like a quiet drumbeat reminding me that love and legacy don’t actually expire. They just change form.

But November isn’t just her month because of astrology and memory.
No, no. November is also Election Month, and my mother believed in voting like some people believe in horoscopes or the restorative power of sheet masks. Well, she also deeply believed in horoscopes.

Voting wasn’t optional in our household. It wasn’t a “maybe if I have time” activity. It was a civic sacrament.

She dragged me to polling stations before I could spell democracy in the spelling bees that she entered me in. Hence, instilling the idea that your voice isn’t just something you use to yell at the television or haggle at the flea market. Your voice shapes the world. Your voice is your responsibility. Your voice matters.

And now, I try to pass that on to my son. The idea that November is not just about candy leftovers and the first frost ruining your delusions of a fall wardrobe. It’s about choice. About participation.
About showing up for something larger than yourself.

Then comes Thanksgiving, the grand finale of the month. It’s a holiday soaked in gratitude, carbs, and the subtle family tension that makes dessert taste even sweeter.
And I can’t help but think of my mother’s quiet belief in giving thanks. She was always grateful. Grateful for opportunity, for community, for the chance to do something meaningful in the world. She nudged me toward fulfilling a destiny she sensed long before I did.

November, in all its layered contradictions of cold air, warm food, tough elections, soft memories, holds all of her.
It’s political and personal. Practical and spiritual. A month of civic duty and deep sentiment.

A month of Mom.

So yes, claim your birthday month if you want. Live it up. But November? November will always have my mother’s fingerprints on it. It’s ink-stained from voting, wrinkled from dish-washing, and warm from the love she radiated like a Scorpio sun.

And each year, as the leaves fall and the ballots rise, I feel her presence reminding me to stay grateful, stay engaged, and stay true to the best parts of myself.

A whole month for one extraordinary woman. And honestly? It still isn’t enough.