The Quiet Weight of Birthdays

It’s my birthday. And like every year, I find myself wrapped in a strange haze of celebration and contemplation. Birthdays can be oddly confusing, can’t they? When it’s someone else’s, we throw ourselves into the joy of it—buying gifts, planning surprises, singing loudly, capturing moments. We do everything we can to make them feel special. But when it’s our own day, the experience shifts. We smile, we receive love, we go through the motions… but there’s something else lingering beneath it all.

Yes, I feel excitement—curious about the surprises waiting for me, touched by the effort my loved ones put in. The decorations, the cake, the warm wishes—they all make me feel seen. I dress up. I laugh. I capture it all on camera. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a subtle dread stirs. A strange emotional cocktail—part joy, part melancholy—flickers beneath the surface.

I begin to remember the other birthdays. Some were joyful. But others… quiet, forgotten. No gifts. No celebrations. Just another day in a household too distracted or too distant to mark the occasion. Some birthdays made me feel invisible. And now, in contrast, these better ones remind me of what was once missing. It’s not bitterness. It’s that bittersweet awareness that life has changed, and so have I. I feel grateful, of course—but sometimes gratitude walks hand-in-hand with grief for the version of me that longed for more.

There’s something about the days leading up to your birthday—those quiet evenings when you remind yourself, “It’s just another birthday.” Maybe that’s a shield, a way to soften the blow of expectations. Or maybe it’s the existential realization that in this world of billions, you are just one more person, making your way through time. You start to wonder: if you hadn’t been born today, would the world have noticed?

And time… it doesn’t stop, does it? Another year added to the timeline. Another tick on the clock. It feels like I’m inching forward on a path that leads to the inevitable truth of aging. One more step away from childhood. One more step closer to a future that feels simultaneously exciting and uncertain. And in that quiet space between then and now, I wonder if I’ve done enough with the time I’ve been given.

Birthdays make you question things you usually push aside. Have I made the right choices? Could I have done things differently? If I’d taken a different road, would I still be here, surrounded by the same people? Would I still be me? And more hauntingly—have I become the version of me I was meant to be? Am I even close?

And yet, in the midst of all this questioning, I’m reminded of something tender: this day is a reminder that I exist. That I came into the world with dreams, with potential, with a future unwritten. My arrival sparked a chain reaction—one that touched lives, shaped moments, wove a story only I could live. Yes, there have been tears, storms, and aching loneliness. But there have also been moments of light. Small joys. People who made me feel whole. A life, however imperfect, still unfolding.

So maybe, despite the strange ache, I can allow myself to celebrate. Not just for the party or the photos, but for the journey. For every step that led me to now. For every person I’ve met, for every moment I’ve survived. For the girl I was, the woman I am, and the version of me I’m still becoming. I honor all the versions of me that have existed until today—the scared ones, the bold ones, the broken and the brave. And sure, the future me as well—the one who still has infinite opportunities ahead, waiting to unfold.

Happy birthday to me.