As the calendar inches closer to my birthday, I find myself caught in a familiar emotional tug-of-war—equal parts hope and dread, excitement and fear. There are 27 days left until the day that marks another trip around the sun, and while most people might see it as a time for celebration, I’m over here battling a decade’s worth of baggage tied to this one day.
For the past ten years, my birthday has been nothing short of a disaster—a masterclass in disappointment. Each year, I’d start off with the tiniest flicker of hope, only to have it extinguished by broken plans, half-hearted efforts, or outright neglect. What should’ve been a day of joy and connection often ended with me locking myself in my room, overwhelmed by tears I promised I wouldn’t cry. It’s hard to explain what that does to you, how it chips away at your ability to feel excited about something that’s supposed to be yours to celebrate.
But this year... this year needs to be different.
I don’t know exactly what “different” looks like yet, but I’m determined to figure it out. I’ve been told I have plans—though no one has really clarified what those plans are. That uncertainty leaves me teetering between cautious optimism and the creeping dread of “What if it’s more of the same?”
The truth is, I want to be excited. I want to believe that I’ll feel special, loved, and celebrated. But there’s a part of me that’s bracing for impact, like I’m preparing for another crash landing before the party even starts. Call it PTSD fear or just a coping mechanism after too many letdowns. Either way, it’s hard to let my guard down and trust that this time will be different.
At the same time, I’ve made a promise to myself: no matter what happens, I will not let this birthday become another tear-streaked memory locked behind a closed door. I’ve spent too many years putting my happiness in other people’s hands, hoping they’d show up for me in ways they didn’t. Not this year.
This year, I’m making me the priority. Whether those mysterious plans materialize or not, I’m determined to carve out a weekend that celebrates me. I’m done waiting for someone else to give me the day I deserve—I’m going to create it myself. Whether it’s indulging in my favorite things, exploring a new place, or simply spending time with people who genuinely want to be there, this birthday will be mine.
It’s a weird place to be, balancing between excitement and fear. On one hand, I want to embrace the possibility that this year will be different, better, even magical. On the other hand, my heart is still carrying the scars of past birthdays that went so horribly wrong. How do you let go of that? How do you convince yourself to step into hope again after so much disappointment?
I don’t have all the answers yet. But what I do know is that this year is going to be a turning point. It has to be. I’m claiming that for myself, even if I don’t fully believe it yet.
So, here I am, 27 days away from a day that has haunted me for years. I’m taking it one step at a time, trying to hold onto the fragile thread of hope while guarding my heart just enough to protect myself. Maybe this year will surprise me. Maybe I’ll surprise myself.
Either way, I refuse to let this birthday pass without doing something that makes me feel like me. No tears, no locking myself away, no giving in to that sinking feeling. This year, I’m celebrating myself—on my terms.
27 days to go. Let’s see what happens.
🫰💟🫖 JRT
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