October has arrived again, and I get hit with a familiar sense of melancholy as I reflect on another year gone by, feeling like I have little to show for it. October (my birth month) has always felt a bit odd to me. While I love the falling leaves and the seasonal celebrations, I can’t help but fall into deep self-reflection. As I prepare to turn another year older, it becomes clearer that not much has changed, despite my hopes for things to be different by now and more on the timeline I have always envisioned for myself. It has been a long year. I am trying not to think about how time evades me. The days have dragged on, but they also slip through my fingertips. I can’t remember what I did three days ago, but it was probably nothing important. It’s tempting to say this year hasn’t treated me kindly, but I know complaining won’t help. After all, I’m still here, and my birthday serves as a reminder of that.
I remember my last year’s birthday clearly. I just got home from school. It’s October 30th, 10:00 AM, and I’ve just turned twenty-one. My best friend at the time had fully decorated my bedroom, and my friends and family have been calling to wish me a happy birthday. Yet, I had this empty, inescapable feeling inside me—a pit that wouldn’t leave my stomach. Oh, it’s time for my annual birthday cry.
I hate my birthday. I used to love them, always being the person who called it a “birthday week” and was annoyingly bubbly about it. But then adulthood crept in, and suddenly, a black cloud drifted into my peripheral. Birthdays began to make me feel sick. The excitement of kid’s birthday parties faded into this pressure to receive grand gestures of love from everyone around me. Birthdays transformed from something fun into a mirror that forces me to look at where I am in life and the people in it.
To be fair, I have my reasons for this shift. Year after year, something unfortunate seems to happen—my friends even joke about my “birthday curse.” I’ve been sick, failed exams, and even had people fail to show up for me the way I show up for them. So maybe it’s no surprise that birthdays are now a day I dread rather than celebrate.
But it’s more than just bad luck. As I get older, I realize how deeply I’ve tied my self-worth to these milestones I have laid out for myself. By 16, I should have my license; by 18, I should be moved out; by 22, I should have a fancy job; and by 25, I should be married. Then by 30, I’ll have designed a house with land. Somewhere in between, I should have lived in New York, done all the things that “successful” people do. And now, as I approach my next milestone, I feel stuck in the same waiting room. Nothing has changed, and I so desperately wanted things to be different by now.
I hate feeling this way. But isn’t this what life is? Lying down time after time, leaving yourself bare, quietly trusting life not to hurt you? Balancing your heart between people’s teeth, hoping they won’t bite down but realizing you’ll be okay if they do? This year, my only goal is to be present where I am. I want to feel grateful for my best friends, my job, and my dog—but also, I want to accept that life won’t always be perfect. If I want the good, I have to embrace the bad.
It’s easy to look for the bad, especially in October. But I remind myself of this: “Look for a yellow car, and you’ll see it.” It’s all about perspective. I can choose to focus on the things that are going wrong, or I can choose to notice the small, beautiful moments—like when all the traffic lights are green, the restaurant gives me free dessert, or a dog on the street only wants me to pet him. It’s okay to feel happy about small things.
As my 22nd birthday is approaching I realize my birthdays may not be what they once were, but maybe that’s okay. The milestones or goals that I have envisioned for myself might not have happened or are on a different timeline, but I’m still here. I’m still trying. And maybe that’s enough.
