Happy sad birthday

I’ve always wondered who decided that birthdays must be happy. Like genuinely, who sat down one day and said, “Yes, this day, no matter what, must be happy.” Because what if it isn’t? What if I didn’t agree? What if nobody asked me how I felt before attaching happiness to the day?

Tomorrow is my birthday. I can’t remember the last time I had a happy one. It falls in the first week of January, which already feels like a bad joke. Everyone is broke. Everyone is tired. Everyone has an excuse. “Christmas drained me.” “New Year took everything.” Sometimes it’s not even my friends my own family, my own parents, will say they spent too much during the holidays. No gift. No anything. I mean I don’t even blame them. Me too, I’m always broke on my birthday. And honestly, I’ve gotten used to it.

But the thing is, it’s not even about the gifts. I’ve learned to live without gifts. It’s the promises that hurt. I hate promises that don’t show up. If you won’t do it, don’t say it. It’s not entitlement; it’s expectation management. I would rather you say nothing at all than tell me “I’ll get you something” and let the day pass quietly like it always does.

Somewhere along the line, I developed birthday anxiety. Every year, without fail, there’s this overwhelming sadness that sits on my chest. I don’t know where it comes from. Maybe it’s because I haven’t achieved what I thought I would by this age. Maybe it’s because I had silent goals I never said out loud but still held myself accountable for. Or maybe it’s just the weight of another year added to a life that doesn’t feel fully figured out yet. I genuinely don’t know.

I don’t hate my birthday; that would feel ungrateful. Adding another year to your life is not small. Not everyone gets that privilege. I understand that. I really do. But I dislike the day. I always want it to come and go quickly. I want the clock to move faster so I can breathe again the next morning.

And that’s why the phrase happy birthday bothers me.

Why happy?
Why must it be happy?
Why not honest birthday?
Why not quiet birthday?
Why not surviving birthday?
Why not new age?
Why not growing birthday?

Who decided happiness was compulsory?

Sometimes when people say “happy birthday” to me, it feels like they’re telling me how I should feel instead of asking how I actually do feel. Like happiness is an obligation I owe the day, even when the day has never really shown up for me.

So maybe this isn’t a sad birthday. Maybe it’s just a real one. One where I sit with my emotions instead of pretending. One where I acknowledge that I’m grateful to be alive, but also tired. One where I don’t force joy just because tradition demands it.

So no maybe it’s not a happy birthday.
Maybe it’s just my birthday.
And maybe that’s enough for now.

Happy sad birthday

I’ve always wondered who decided that birthdays must be happy. Like genuinely, who sat down one day and said, “Yes, this day, no matter what, must be happy.” Because what if it isn’t? What if I didn’t agree? What if nobody asked me how I felt before attaching happiness to the day?

Tomorrow is my birthday. I can’t remember the last time I had a happy one. It falls in the first week of January, which already feels like a bad joke. Everyone is broke. Everyone is tired. Everyone has an excuse. “Christmas drained me.” “New Year took everything.” Sometimes it’s not even my friends my own family, my own parents, will say they spent too much during the holidays. No gift. No anything. I mean I don’t even blame them. Me too, I’m always broke on my birthday. And honestly, I’ve gotten used to it.

But the thing is, it’s not even about the gifts. I’ve learned to live without gifts. It’s the promises that hurt. I hate promises that don’t show up. If you won’t do it, don’t say it. It’s not entitlement; it’s expectation management. I would rather you say nothing at all than tell me “I’ll get you something” and let the day pass quietly like it always does.

Somewhere along the line, I developed birthday anxiety. Every year, without fail, there’s this overwhelming sadness that sits on my chest. I don’t know where it comes from. Maybe it’s because I haven’t achieved what I thought I would by this age. Maybe it’s because I had silent goals I never said out loud but still held myself accountable for. Or maybe it’s just the weight of another year added to a life that doesn’t feel fully figured out yet. I genuinely don’t know.

I don’t hate my birthday; that would feel ungrateful. Adding another year to your life is not small. Not everyone gets that privilege. I understand that. I really do. But I dislike the day. I always want it to come and go quickly. I want the clock to move faster so I can breathe again the next morning.

And that’s why the phrase happy birthday bothers me.

Why happy?
Why must it be happy?
Why not honest birthday?
Why not quiet birthday?
Why not surviving birthday?
Why not new age?
Why not growing birthday?

Who decided happiness was compulsory?

Sometimes when people say “happy birthday” to me, it feels like they’re telling me how I should feel instead of asking how I actually do feel. Like happiness is an obligation I owe the day, even when the day has never really shown up for me.

So maybe this isn’t a sad birthday. Maybe it’s just a real one. One where I sit with my emotions instead of pretending. One where I acknowledge that I’m grateful to be alive, but also tired. One where I don’t force joy just because tradition demands it.

So no maybe it’s not a happy birthday.
Maybe it’s just my birthday.
And maybe that’s enough for now.