Another Year Shows Up Anyway

Birthdays have always felt a little strange to me.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way I can fully explain.

But there’s always been this feeling—like I want to cry.

Not because I’m sad. Just… something.

There’s a part of me that wants to be celebrated.

I like the idea of people stopping by, saying happy birthday, bringing flowers.

And then there’s another part of me that pulls back from that.

That doesn’t feel fully comfortable receiving it.

Like I don’t know if I’ve earned it.

Like I’m not fully worthy of people taking that time for me.

And I know that’s deeper than the day itself.

The Part That Doesn’t Add Up

The age part doesn’t really matter to me.

I don’t track it closely.

I notice it more in other ways—like my hair being white, or people thinking I’m older than I am.

But the number itself doesn’t hold much weight.

What does show up is this feeling that maybe I should already be further along.

That I should have more figured out by now.

That I should be doing more.

And at the same time… I don’t fully believe that either.

Because there’s another part of me that feels like time doesn’t really work the way we think it does.

Like it matters—and it doesn’t.

Like things unfold when they’re supposed to.

So I sit somewhere in the middle of that.

Between feeling behind and knowing I’m not.

Between wanting to be seen and not fully knowing how to receive it.

And still—the day shows up.

Whether I feel ready for it or not.

So I meet it the best way I know how.

Not perfectly.

Not loudly.

But honestly.

Giddyup.