As a child, my birthday was easily the best day of the year. Waking up in the morning to a special breakfast, going to school in a special birthday outfit, having your entire class sing you happy birthday, and best of all, getting to see your parent in the middle of the day. For some reason, that last part was always my favorite. At my elementary school, your parents could come in to bring treats and give your whole life story to your classmates, an appealing idea to most, especially me. The prospect of seeing my mom at one p.m. on a Tuesday was easily the highlight of my birthday. As the years passed, I felt distanced from the child I once was. No longer is my birthday hailed as a special occasion, it is celebrated in text messages, and pity wishes from those who don’t think about me enough to care.
Hate may be a bit of a strong word to describe the feelings I carry toward my birthday, but it’s more complicated than that. Like most, I cannot help the bits of childlike joy from celebrating one’s special day. Birthday cake, decorations, presents, and singing have always and will likely always put a smile on my face. However, those moments in between the pockets of birthday magic are where my complicated feelings lie. The passing of time is often cause for contemplation, and that usually coincides with me getting older. Each year, for everything that I may gain in experience, knowledge, friends, and stories, I lose something too. I’m not referring to years off of my life; I certainly have no desire to live forever and welcome my demise when the time comes. No, for me, I lose part of my childhood each year, or more specifically, girlhood. Every year, I feel myself drifting further and further from my childhood self, which is something that scares me.
Personal celebrations such as birthdays, promotions, and other big accomplishments are also good ways to see who in your life pays attention. How many of your 800 followers on Instagram and Snapchat care enough to take 60 seconds out of their days to text a simple happy birthday or congrats? How many of your close friends know when your birthday is? The answer to these questions, more often than not, leads to disappointment and resentment. I find myself overthinking these relationships with people who could not even be bothered to wish me a happy birthday. Then, I go even further to compare myself to others on their birthdays when it seems as though half of the population wishes them well.
This year, on my birthday, Thursday, November 14th, I tried to be more mindful. Remembering that those who care for me will show me how they care, one way or another. I wanted to keep in mind that my value as an individual is in no way determined by the amount of messages I receive. Even with all of this, I know that I will still find myself in tears at some point. After all, turning 18 was a big milestone, and I would like to think that I deserved a little cry. For all those who find themselves feeling a bit melancholy on their special day, don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t cry on your birthday.