Dear diary, I just turned 38.
There was a time when my birthday felt simple but complete. It was never a loud party, just a small, family-centered celebration. We would eat out or have dinner in a restaurant.
Now the day feels… quieter. Still. Heavy in a way that sits in my chest.
Both my parents are gone. They left this world peacefully, which I’m grateful for, but peace for them has meant a strange storm for me. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s — the dates that used to glow on the calendar — now stand out for a different reason. They feel like reminders. Of who is missing. Of the version of me that used to exist when they were still here.
I can already feel it coming, if I am honest. This ache will not stop with today. It will stretch over December, slide into Christmas, echo on New Year’s Eve. Most of my life, those days meant being together as a family. Me, Mom, Dad, my sister. Food, noise, the comfort of routine. Now there is space where people used to be. Empty chairs that only I can see.
This year, I bumped into a hard wall: expectations.
I did not think I was expecting much. Just a little extra care. A moment of being seen. But my heart betrayed me. I was expecting people to remember, to try, to step up. When they did not, the disappointment cut deep.
One thing about me: I’m the one who prepares things for others. But I am rarely the one prepared for. I do not say this to look pitiful or dramatic. I say it because it is the truth that hurts the most this year.
Somewhere inside, there is still that child version of me, hoping someone would make a big deal out of my birthday. Hoping someone would sit me down, say “Here’s your favorite, for the birthday boy!” and put a candle in front of me without me having to ask or arrange it.
So here is the strange conclusion I have come to on my 38th birthday:
I accept defeat.
Not in a dramatic “giving up on life” way. More like dropping a heavy bag I have been carrying for too long. I accept that life may look like this from now on. That birthdays might stay quiet. That Christmas and New Year’s may never feel as warm as they did when Mom and Dad were alive. That people will disappoint me, over and over, even if I give them the best parts of me.
I accept that I cannot control who cares, who shows up, who remembers me without being reminded.
What I can do is protect my inner peace like it is the last precious thing I own.
I may feel alone sometimes. I may grieve the life I used to have. But I will not let my mind spiral into places that scare me. I will not let bitterness rot my heart.
I have already lost so much. My parents. Versions of myself. Whole chapters of my life. I cannot afford to lose my sanity too.
So I am choosing what may look like surrender.
I am choosing to stop expecting people to love me the way I love them. I am choosing to stop waiting for grand gestures that may never arrive. I am choosing to let go of the idea that the only love that matters is the one that comes from outside.
If accepting this is “defeat,” then fine. Let it be defeat. At least in this defeat, I get to keep my peace.
I do not know if this is growth, or just scar tissue. I do not know if this is “healing,” or just me learning how to numb certain parts of my heart to survive. I do not know if this change is good, or if it is simply necessary.
What I know is this: I have been changed.
By grief. By loss. By love that was given and love that failed me. By birthdays that feel empty and holidays that remind me of what is gone. By the choice to protect my peace over winning any emotional battle.
Maybe one day I will look back at this version of me and say, “You did the best you could with what you had.” Maybe one day joy will feel bright again, not muted. Maybe I will learn new ways to celebrate, new traditions, new circles, new warmth.
For now, on my 38th birthday, I am sitting with the truth:
I do not know if this change is “good,”
but I have been changed for good.
ʙᴏɴɴᴇ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴛɪᴛ 