Right now, it’s a few minutes to my birthday, and everything feels different. Not like the lonely, unloved, or forgotten birthdays of the past. This time, I don’t feel abandoned, and I don’t feel like I don’t belong.
But there’s still this quiet weight on my chest. Maybe it’s the absence of someone I miss. Maybe it’s the presence of emotions I haven’t fully figured out yet. Either way, the feelings linger.
Growing up without my mother, and without the emotional presence of either of my parents, shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. Their absence didn’t just hurt; it hardened me. I spent years longing for their love, and when it didn’t come, I built walls around my heart just to survive.
Now that I’m older, I’m slowly learning to loosen those walls. Not completely, because life still demands a bit of armor, but just enough to let myself feel again.
Still, there’s a tension I can’t ignore, Eve. I feel like I’ve figured out a lot, and yet I still feel a little lost. I’ve made progress, but at the same time, I feel stuck, like I’m holding something valuable but don’t know how to fully claim it.
I’m not exactly sad, but I’m not okay either. People call it “birthday blues,” but I don’t. I’ve never liked that term. I believe in taking responsibility for our own emotions, even the messy or confusing ones.
Maybe I need to let go a bit more. Let myself be human without trying to predict every feeling or control every thought.
Maybe I still miss my ex, the one I chose to walk away from, yet whose absence still aches in quiet moments.
Maybe I just miss being someone’s person. That first call. That thoughtful message. That feeling of being deeply known, even when love is no longer there.
Lately, I’ve had this strange urge to reach out to people who hurt me. Not because I want to fix things or because I was wrong, but maybe just to release whatever weight still lingers.
Some days I want to say, “I’m sorry.” Other days, I want to say, “F*ck you.” Honestly, sometimes I want to say both. Because letting go doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes it’s not pretty. It’s just honest.
It’s a few minutes to my birthday, and I don’t feel like celebrating. I don’t want to pretend the day doesn’t matter, but I also don’t know how to embrace it. I’m genuinely grateful to God, but I can’t lie, there’s a part of me that wonders if He forgot one or two promises.
I told Him what I wanted. I prayed. But now I’m scared to expect too much. I tell myself I’m managing expectations, but I wonder if that’s just a way of protecting myself from disappointment. Have I lost faith? I hope not. I really hope not.
This year, I’m not writing one of those long, hopeful birthday reflections. I’m tired of those neatly packaged resolutions and poetic posts.
I don’t want to craft a list of what this new year of my life will mean. I just want to live. To breathe. To just be.
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