A love letter to introverts, cake, and the only person who deserves a celebration. This is my unsolicited manifesto on Why Birthdays Are Overrated.” —From a reluctant birthday celebrator and professional ghoster of group chats
From the moment the clock strikes midnight, it begins. The pings. The notifications. The overly enthusiastic “HBD!!!!” and “Have a good one!” comments from people I haven’t spoken to since the Obama administration. I sit there, phone in hand, eyes twitching, wondering if I can legally declare myself in a state of emotional quarantine.
But here’s the thing: I don’t want to celebrate my birthday. I want to survive it. Quietly. Preferably in sweatpants, eating cake over the sink like a raccoon with a Netflix subscription. And yet the world demands celebration. Why?
“Celebrate another year of life!” they say. Cool. I also survived food poisoning in 2016 and no one threw me a party for that. Where’s my commemorative cupcake for not choking on a vitamin gummy last week?
Earth made another lap around the sun. Yay, I’m older! I didn’t turn 40 but rather the planet dragged me in circles around a dying star that many number of times and now I get to celebrate surviving that. It’s less of a celebration and more of an endurance test.
And don’t even get me started on the expectation to plan something. Brunch? Dinner? No thanks. Group chat logistics are the emotional equivalent of doing your own taxes with a broken calculator. Just let me order overpriced takeout, contemplate the void, and scroll Rightmove property listings I can’t afford.
But hey, what’s a birthday without the pressure to feel like it’s an accomplishment, right? You survived another year of existential dread, random colds, and probably some weird awkward social interactions. Each birthday is less ‘Yay!’ and more ‘Yikes’. Oh, and don’t forget the horror that age brings! My bones creak a little more, my memory slips a little faster, and every time I look at a new skincare product, I think: I should really try this… but no, I’ll just eat chips and pretend to understand TikTok.
Here’s the thing: people always ask, “What do you want for your birthday?” And that’s the worst question ever. Because at this point in my life, I’m lucky if I can figure out what I want for dinner, let alone what I need as a present. I mean, I haven’t even figured out what I’m doing with my laundry half the time.
You ask me what I want for my birthday, and I’m like, “I don’t know, maybe a life coach or a vacation to somewhere where the Wi-Fi doesn’t feel like a betrayal.” But let’s be real: I don’t even know what I want to do with my career. Or my favourite pair of earrings, which have somehow become an extension of my personality.
At some point between the obligatory phone calls and passive-aggressive WhatsApp forwards from relatives, I started wondering — what is the best way to celebrate a birthday?
Because somewhere between the algorithmically generated GIFs and surprise Instagram mentions from people who don’t even know how old I am, birthdays have stopped feeling personal. They’ve become ego snacks — tiny, empty-calorie bites of performative affection.
But maybe, just maybe, if you give your brain a snack and ask it nicely to function and pause the mental circus for one second to think this through, birthdays aren’t about the person who was born. After all, I didn’t decide to be born. I just showed up, screaming and demanding snacks — a pattern I’ve largely maintained.
The real MVP of my birthday? My mom. She did all the heavy lifting. Literally. So maybe birthdays should be celebrated not by the one who was born, but by the one who birthed.
She should be the one getting cake, flowers, maybe a nap. She should walk into a room and get a standing ovation, or at the very least, someone to do the dishes.
My husband, ever the voice of maternal loyalty, once said:
“You can’t ignore your mom’s call. Technically, she made you. You owe her for the birthday.”
So to be fair, yes there is one person who gets a birthday pass: my mom. She made me. Literally. She went through painful labour and a C-section, and then some more manual labour, which sounds dramatic and definitely involved bodily trauma and white hair creation, so I suppose the least I can do is answer her call while still horizontal in bed.
And now that I am a mom — I get it.
The aches, the sleepless nights, the years of “can I have a snack?” echoing through time — yep, we earn every candle on that cake.
In conclusion, yes — it’s my birthday. Yes — I’m grateful for life. But no — I don’t want to talk about it. This isn’t an invitation. This is a declaration: I am old(er), I am tired, and I would like to be left in peace. Except you, Mom. You get a pass. But just a quick call, please. I’ve got cake to eat and silence to enjoy.
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