I Always Cry on My Birthday (But This Year Felt Different)

Your birthday, a reminder that the sun came back for you again.
Proof that you’ve survived every version of yourself so far.

Birthdays mean different things for different people. For some, it’s a celebration of life, a sign of growth, a day to show up as your most exaggerated self. For others, it’s when you’re treated like a queen, surrounded by the people who love you most.

But for some of us, birthdays are reminders.
Reminders that the community we thought we had isn’t as close as we hoped.
Reminders that we’re not where we want to be.
Reminders that some of the people we once shared space with are no longer in our lives.

And grieving the idea of someone or something, especially when they’re still alive, is one of the hardest things to do.

I’ve always cried on my birthday because I never truly felt celebrated.

Except for my sixth birthday, a birthday party, my denim two-piece set, pigtails perfectly styled, surrounded by friends and frenemies. Because back then, your parents invited everyone in your class, and their parents. Which makes me wonder, were those parties ever for the kids, or for the adults?

I thought everyone was my friend, even the mean girls.
Maybe that was my first lesson in confusing proximity with connection.

Fast forward to adulthood, birthdays (except for maybe two) have shown me that I either wasn’t a priority in someone’s life or that I was pouring too much energy into others.

People pleasing.

I was always the friend who showed up. At every party, every trip I couldn’t afford, always going out of my way to make others feel special on their birthday.

It’s an interesting thing, loving in your love language when what you really need is to align yourself with people who love naturally.

Just like in relationships, in friendships, you have to be selective.
Observe how people make you feel.
Pay attention to how they react to your wins, your transitions, and your silence.

Birthdays only highlight what was already there. They magnify the gaps, the love, and everything in between. If you want to read more about friendship archetypes, read here.

Even with family, it’s been tricky.

I’ve always had to plan my own birthday, the restaurant, the cake, the guest list. I’ve had people cancel, forget the date, or not show up at all.

I understand that sometimes timing or finances don’t align. But what I’ll never understand is the illusion of showing up or staying silent.

It doesn’t take much to make someone feel seen.
A text message. A coffee. A simple gesture.
It’s not all or nothing.

I used to take silence personally, but now I see it for what it is: a form of clarity.

Sometimes the smallest act of effort can remind someone they still matter.

I’m also learning that closed mouths don’t get fed. You have to voice what matters to you, and then wait. Allow people to show you who they really are.

Especially in love. Especially in friendship.

And in the meantime, love yourself.
Take yourself out. Book the spa day. Eat your favorite food. Collect your free birthday treats. (Thank you Sephora, Ulta, etc.)

We are sometimes alone, but never on our own once we have ourselves.

This year, I learned that my soul lesson is to build community but not depend on it for validation.

To love it, appreciate it, but never forget that the celebration of my life starts with me.

So many people didn’t make it to today. So many stories paused mid-sentence. But I’m still here, still writing mine.

And that alone is something to be grateful for.

It’s okay to cry on your birthday.
It’s okay to not be where you thought you’d be.

But I urge you to ask: From whose standards are you measuring your life?
Are they your own?

If not, start redefining them today.

I’ve cried on every birthday.
But this year, I cried because, for the first time, I felt peace.

Peace in knowing I didn’t settle.
Peace in knowing I’m becoming the woman I want to be.
Peace in knowing I have love, purpose, source, and a sound mind.

This year was both one of the best and hardest of my life.

My first brand partnership.
Remote work after being laid off.
Writing again. Creating again. Freelancing.
Losing people. Meeting amazing ones.

Revelation after revelation. Lesson after lesson.
Growth doesn’t always feel like becoming. Sometimes it feels like breaking. Like falling apart and coming together at the same time.

And maybe the biggest realization of all, by choosing me, I’ve become the villain in someone else’s story.

This year, I set a theme for the next 365 days: entering my villain era.
Getting serious about me.

Solo dates. Journaling. Starting scared. Speaking even when my voice shakes.

It’s a return to self, because sometimes we lose our spark while trying to keep everyone else’s lit.

So today, I decided to choose me again. Will you?

And maybe next year, I’ll cry again.
But they’ll be tears of gratitude for a life that once only existed in my dreams.

Am I the only one who cries on their birthday?
Or maybe you know that feeling too, the mix of gratitude, grief, and everything in between.

Each year reminds me I’m still growing, still learning, still becoming the woman I once needed.

It’s never too late to start again.
Never too late to build a life that feels like you.

Thank you, Source, for another return.
And thank you, always, for reading my words.

If this essay resonated, it’s probably because you’ve felt this feeling before.

The reflection.
Gratitude and grief.
The realization that you’re not who you used to be, and that something new, someone new is emerging.

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