Photo by Valentin Bolder on Unsplash
I turned 33 today.
For some, birthdays are about celebration, and having a moment to feel special. For others, it elicits a sense of worry, confronting us to the inevitable march of time.
My somewhat surprising reaction when the clock struck midnight was a sense of lightness.
I think the honest response is that I’m somewhat grateful to be alive. Making it to the age of 33 feels like an achievement, particularly after the few years I’ve had. It may sound grim, but surviving the extreme confusion of my own existence in an increasingly hostile world does feel like an achievement.
There’s also a secondary feeling of peace. For most of my life, birthdays have actually been one of the worst days in the calendar. I would hate it. Rather than a joyous occasion, it felt a day that highlighted social isolation and family dysfunction more than celebration. If I were to think about my birthdays, I have overwhelmingly negative memories.
In adult life, I felt an intense social pressure to do something ‘special’. These would often be special activities or trips. Although these could be nice, the idea of doing things that I wouldn’t necessarily do anyway felt quite performative. I even considered taking a trip away this year, but that felt more like running away from the world rather than actually ‘treating myself’.
I went through a phase of hosting parties. In practice, this was a ritual of sending invitations and hoping people might turn up. Some did. Some didn’t. Some said they would, but then didn’t bother. I, meanwhile, took up the mental and emotional pressure of having to organise everything. I’d often end up feeling more solemn and hurt by people’s selfishness than anything selse.
So some years ago, I decided that I’d stop caring. ‘What’s in a day anyway?’ I used to say. It made for good bravado, and from a spiritual perspective it sounded enlightened. But in the end, I was somewhat lying to myself. I did still feel hurt, but I just pretended I didn’t. I remember rather regretting I didn’t do anything for my 30th birthday. It took me a while for me to actually admit this to myself.
What makes today’s sense of peace interesting is that nothing has really changed. If anything, I seem to be living a more socially isolated life than I ever have before. Yet, I think I’m also making peace with my existence. When I now see people having lavish celebrations, I realise I’m comparing apples to oranges.
Whilst I would dearly love to have the nice part, the truth is that I also don’t want the rest of the things that come with it. Many people exist in social groups that quell their individuality and independence. Oft, such parties are also a proof of social happiness rather than a byproduct. Such concepts mean little to me. It’s probably why they have always felt a bit false. If people want to celebrate me, they’re welcome to. But I’m not going to make it an enforced social interaction.
I’ve not really done anything special today. In fact, I even had quite a bad night’s sleep thanks to a mosquito visiting me in the night. But there’s something calming about having a peaceful Sunday without any obligations and performances to make.
My birthday has seemingly gotten to that point that I wanted several years ago. A day for some enjoyment and reflection, but certainly not worth stressing over.