The Weight of Another Birthday

I've always loved birthdays.

I still do.

Even now, I still wake up with that same little excitement I had as a kid. There's something about birthdays that has always felt a little magical to me. The cake, the candles, the people you love gathered around one table, another year of life.

I've never been afraid of getting older.

If anything, birthdays have always made me emotional for a completely different reason.

Because when I look back, I realize that every birthday has somehow reflected exactly where I was in my life. Some birthdays were filled with laughter.

Some were quiet.

Some were incredibly lonely.

And now, when another birthday comes around, I don't just celebrate another year. I remember every version of myself that made it here.

There is one birthday I think about more than the others. I can't even remember exactly how old I was turning. Somewhere in my early twenties. A group of us had gone to London, Ontario to celebrate mine and another friend's birthday. From the outside, it probably looked like every other weekend.

It wasn't.

At that point in my life, I was running from just about everything. I had been awake for days beforehand, and I remember pretending I had slept the night before, pretending I was okay, pretending nobody could tell. But when you're living like that, people always know more than you think they do.

That whole season of my life was built on escapism. I didn't know how to sit with myself.

So I stayed busy.

So I stayed distracted.

I kept saying yes to anything that meant I didn't have to slow down long enough to ask myself why I was so unhappy. That night, my own choices caught up with me. Because of the way I acted, everyone decided it was time to head back to Sarnia. I remember standing there begging one of them to please just take me home.

Eventually, someone did.

Then I woke up the next morning. My actual birthday.

No phone calls.

No birthday texts.

Nothing.

At the time, I remember feeling completely heartbroken. Like nobody cared. But the older I've become, the more honest I've had to be with myself.

What did I expect?

By that point, I had spent years damaging relationships.

Breaking trust.

Disappearing when people needed me.

Choosing everything else before the people who genuinely cared about me.

The loneliness I felt that morning didn't come out of nowhere. It was the result of the life I had been living. That's difficult to admit. But it's also where healing began. Because for the first time, I stopped blaming everyone else. I looked at myself.

Not with shame.

Not with self-hatred.

Just honesty.

The birthday after that wasn't much different. I was still figuring things out. Still carrying the weight of the years before. But something had changed inside me.

I remember spending that birthday asking myself a question I'd never really asked before.

What do I want the rest of my birthdays to feel like? Not just the day itself. My life.

The truth was, I was exhausted. I was tired of constantly escaping.

Tired of waking up wondering what I'd said, what I'd done, who I'd disappointed.

Tired of pretending I was having the time of my life when, underneath it all, I was miserable.

I couldn't keep living like that.

So, little by little, I stopped. Not overnight.

There wasn't one dramatic moment where everything suddenly became better.

There were hundreds of ordinary decisions. Walking away from people who weren't good for me. Learning how to be alone without feeling lonely. Choosing slower mornings instead of longer nights. Learning how to actually take care of myself.

Finding things that made me feel alive instead of things that simply helped me forget.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that...I found myself again.

Now birthdays feel completely different. Not because they're extravagant. Not because I need everyone around me. But because I no longer measure my birthday by how many people text me or what plans I have.

I know, without needing anyone to tell me, how deeply I'm loved. That feeling doesn't come from one day anymore.

It comes from the life I've built.

The relationships I've nurtured.

The people who've stayed.

Sometimes I still think about that younger version of me waking up alone on her birthday. I wish I could sit beside her.

Not to erase what happened.

Not to tell her she'd never make mistakes again.

Just to tell her that one day she'd understand why those birthdays mattered.

They weren't there to punish her.

They were there to wake her up.

Every lonely birthday.

Every disappointing birthday.

Every birthday spent wondering if life would ever feel different.

They all quietly led me here.

To a home in Italy.

To mornings I don't want to escape from.

To friendships that feel safe.

To a marriage that feels like peace.

To writing again.

To this life.

There were years where I genuinely wasn't sure what my future would look like. There were birthdays where I couldn't imagine the woman I'd become.

I don't wish for more time and I can absolutely promise you, I do not wish to be younger either.

I simply pause for a moment and think, thank you.

Thank you for another year.

Thank you for another chance to keep learning.

Because maybe that's what birthdays have always been.

Not a reminder that we're getting older but a quiet reminder that we're still here.

Still growing.

Still learning.

Still becoming.

And after everything, I don't think I'll ever stop being grateful for that.