The Birthday Glitch

It was my birthday recently.

I never announce the date, but the children I work with always find a way to figure it out. Every year they bring something handmade: drawings, paper creatures, small chaotic masterpieces. Watching them place these little things on my desk made me think about something. It’s so easy for them to give, and yet, for me, receiving has become complicated.

I’ve always been the person who gives. I learned that early in life: helping, fixing, making sure things are okay. But for a long time, I didn’t believe I deserved to receive anything, not even a celebration for the day I was born.

The Years of Disappearing

For most of my life, I didn’t celebrate my birthday. I think the only time it felt “normal” was when I was 14; a cousin’s mother brought two cakes because my cousin and I share the same birthday. Other than that, my tradition was to disappear. I would leave the house early in the morning and come back late at night, just so no one could celebrate me. I would walk for hours, go to a movie alone, or eat by myself just to make the day pass. Just one more day to get through. Maybe that’s why I always lose track of my age, because I spent so many years trying to ignore the count.

Even after I entered a stable relationship, I celebrated my partner and my mother-in-law, but never myself. When my children came, we started having simple family celebrations with a cake, and that was it. To be honest, I’ve always felt that I’d rather go to a funeral than a birthday party; my sister always loved the big parties and the fast-paced celebrations, but they never tempted me.

One More Marble in the Jar

But in recent years, something has shifted. We’ve created a small, quiet tradition. We gather as a family, we talk, and we eat cake together. It’s simple, but it’s real.

For a long time, I didn’t think I “deserved” a birthday because I felt I hadn’t done anything to earn it. Now, I no longer feel guilty for having lived another year. Instead of a burden, I see it as adding another marble to the jar of my life. I celebrate it with a cake and my own family, simple and beautiful. For me, that is enough.

Finding the Others

Maybe that’s also why I’m here, writing this.

I originally installed Instagram when I started my blog because I wanted to create connections through my books. But once I finished, I didn’t really feel the need to use the app anymore. Then, I wrote that post about buying twenty old books, and something shifted. Suddenly, I felt a spark of wanting to find people like me: the quiet ones, the observers, the ones who build meaning slowly.

And slowly, I’ve started to notice them. The person who wrote about always being the “good daughter.” The one who felt completely shattered after losing a small animal that meant the world to them. The writer who said it’s hard to promote their own book because they are deeply introverted. The artist whose portraits make you feel like the eyes in the painting are looking right back at you.

I recognized something familiar in all of them.

The Choice to Stay (On My Own Terms)

A while ago, I wrote that post about the twenty books in an impulsive moment. The truth is, that day my phone actually suggested deleting apps I wasn’t using anymore. Instagram was one of them. For a second, I almost did it. I almost deleted my digital presence and disappeared again.

Because I don’t have much experience with social media, I didn’t realize at first what Instagram really was. I eventually found people worth talking to, but I couldn’t ignore how commercial and shallow the platform felt. It’s a world of “scroll and doom,” and it didn’t fit the space I was trying to build.

So, instead of disappearing, I chose a different path. I cleared my information, and moved my focus to my blog and Substack.

Which, honestly, is the most accurate summary of my personality: almost deleting my digital life, refusing the commercial noise, and accidentally buying twenty physical books instead.

Another year of existence added to the list. I am finally opening the doors to the rooms of my life and letting the light in. So far, it seems… sufficient.