Today is my birthday. I turn thirty two. In fact, as I was born just after midnight, I have already turned.
It is early in the morning, even earlier than I usually wake up, and the rest of the house are sleeping soundly whilst I sit here and write this. I have come downstairs and everywhere is dark; autumn is coming. It feels strange. Almost like it used to feel when I would wake in the night to settle my daughter. But not quite. I feel strange.
I don’t feel like celebrating. Not because I am sad I am getting older. I already feel much older than I could have ever imagined. Not even because I am sad. This feels strange.
I have always loved birthdays. I have been know to drag them out for weeks at a time. In my family birthdays have always been a big deal. And I like to feel important.
But my birthday doesn’t feel important today. It doesn’t seem to matter.
I wonder why: what is different? Have I lost that desire to feel validated? Have I found my sense of importance elsewhere in my life? Or have I realised that one day is just like any other?
Something about all of these options starts to make me feel a little sad. And no one wants to feel sad on their birthday.
So I smile. I see a card on the mantle piece and decide to open it now.
Let’s start the celebrations…