Birthdays to come

Birthdays have always been a tender spot for me. While some people stretch their celebrations into a full weekend, a week, or even an entire month, I can barely muster enthusiasm for the day itself. I’ve never been the person counting down or planning parties. I move toward the day with hope that this year will be different, better, maybe even exciting.

I have lived fifty years, yet only a handful of my birthdays qualify as happy memories. Even fewer felt special. Most years, the day lands with a dull thud. It becomes a reminder of who is absent, what I’ve lost, and the kind of love and celebration I still secretly hope exists.

One element that has always complicated my birthday is its proximity to Thanksgiving.

Everyone is busy, traveling, or wrapped up in their own family rituals. I have never blamed anyone, but it is difficult to ignore how easily my day gets swallowed by a holiday that isn’t mine to participate in. By middle school, even my family celebrations had merged into Thanksgiving. It never felt like a day for me.

As a child, my mom tried to keep birthdays important, although planning and coordinating them as I got older was difficult for her. I had parties with friends from kindergarten through fifth grade and again in seventh grade, and then never again. Beginning in second grade, the parties became sleepovers. My mom loved having my friends gathered at our house, playing games and having fun. She planned activities, prizes, and food. She spared no expense, and I loved the chaotic celebration.

My family parties probably happened every year alongside the friend parties, but they all blended together. I enjoyed seeing my aunts, uncles, and cousins, although it never truly felt like they were there for me. Sometimes they were already gathered for Thanksgiving, so naturally they wished me a happy birthday. My extended family was not especially generous with my brother or me, so gift-opening always felt awkward. My mom taught me to show excitement for presents even when I felt disappointed. I believed I overacted. She believed I had mastered showing appreciation.

As an adult, the birthday planning often fell on me, and I struggled to ask people to celebrate me, even though it was what I truly wanted. I fantasized about friends surprising me with a party or a partner making a grand gesture, but it never materialized. During my sixteen and a half years of marriage, I remember exactly one birthday that felt genuinely nice. It was my first birthday in Germany, celebrated in the traditional way with my husband, friends, and my adopted family there. The best birthday in that entire era, however, was one I intentionally spent without him. I already knew that if he were involved, I would be disappointed again. So I created a day that felt special and pampering because he never would have done that for me on his own.

I also remember two birthdays during the marriage that were deeply painful. It wasn’t only that he failed to plan anything special. He actively resisted what could have been fun, exciting, or even romantic. Those birthdays reflected so many moments in our marriage when I felt lonely despite not being alone.

One particular birthday stands out: my first one back in the United States after five years in Germany. I was in grad school, and he had just started working as the maintenance person at our apartment complex. We had very little money. On Thanksgiving, my dad and grandparents gave me a little birthday money. The next day, I went to Target and bought an inexpensive but fancy-for-me blouse to wear to dinner. We hadn’t gone out in a long time, so being at a new restaurant, in a new blouse, on my birthday, felt like a treat.

He couldn’t have been more disengaged. He barely spoke. I tried to be cheerful and pull him into conversation, hoping for any sign that he was glad to be out celebrating with me. Nothing worked. Every attempt fell flat. Eventually, I began to tear up and asked him what was wrong. He insisted it was nothing. I told him I had been trying to entertain him on my birthday. He had no response.

I asked if he wanted dessert. He said no. Ice cream? His favorite. Also no. I hated the nervousness I felt that night. I was so uncomfortable and had no idea what had happened or what I could do to redeem the evening and my birthday.

Somehow, we ended up at Wal-Mart to pick up dessert. I must have insisted, going after what I wanted. While there, we grabbed a couple of DVDs, including Little Miss Sunshine. He actually seemed happy about that. By pleasing him, I salvaged the rest of the evening. We ate store-bought cake and ice cream at home and watched the movie with our dog. Had that been the plan all along, it would have been lovely. If any of it had been his idea or supported by him, it would have been perfect. Instead, it was just me making an effort to make someone else feel special on my special day, while feeling bad for wanting anything for myself.

My best birthday, the one I hold closest, was the surprise bicycle. I still struggle to put into words what that day meant. It was beautiful, special, loving, and entirely mine. It remains the most generous gift I have ever received, and it came from my partner of one year. She showed up for me in a way no one ever had. Even with the distance between us now, I will never forget that day. I believe she knows how much it meant.

My last birthday celebration in 2022 was also not alone. Three wonderful people were with me, and they loved me. They tried to make the morning special because I spent the rest of the day preparing a traditional Thanksgiving meal. I chose that because I wanted them to enjoy this holiday centered on gratitude and loved ones. I did not know then that I would not have another birthday celebration for many years.

When she moved back to Switzerland, my birthday felt forgotten again. I spent two birthdays in a row alone, making the full count four alone throughout my life. Only one of those was by choice. This year, I expected the same. But in an unexpected twist, I was not alone. There was something quietly meaningful in that surprise shift from someone I cared deeply about but whom I thought I may never see again. It pushed back against the story I had already written for myself. I was loved, and I was able to give love. It was brief, but I needed it more than most people will ever understand.

Now, as I begin the second half of my life, I have decided not to live in want anymore. I will not wait for anyone. I will live fully and on my own terms. My next birthday will be big. It will be shared with people who love me, and I will make it happen.

Every birthday from now on is a gift I will celebrate. Not everyone gets the privilege of aging.