Another Year Around the Sun

Every single year, without fail, I wake up crying on my birthday.

I am not special in this regard. Birthday crying is widely reported, despite what anyone says about this day feeling like any other. It's linked to all the reasons you may think: reflection on aging, social pressure to have the Instagram-worthy "perfect day", emotional overwhelm, and perhaps oddly, loneliness.

My birthday always feel like the loneliest day in the calendar year, even if I'm surrounded by people I love. I suffer with the crushing weight of my expectations, not only of others but myself as well. I cry because people remembered me. I cry because people didn't. I cry because I feel so silly and small for putting so much emphasis on the marking of just another year around the sun.

Every year I think of what Wikipedia calls the "birthday effect" – "a statistical phenomenon where an individual's likelihood of death appears to increase on or close to their birthday." It's not something that has a ton of statical backing behind it in the grand scheme of things, but it's been observed a little too often to be ignored.

It's predicted that the risk of suicide – especially for those who are already vulnerable – skyrockets on a birthday. People find themselves bombarded with an increased mortality salience, and you are suddenly left in the wake of the reality that your bones are older, your skin is older, your eyes are older, and your heart is older.

I can't say I feel wiser. I do feel the bearing of every lesson learned and every scar earned. I do look back at the version of myself a year ago, perhaps a little brighter than I am now, and wonder if she anticipated what the following 365 days had in store for her.

I throw my guts up in fervid embarrassment over every single mistake I made, every context clue I couldn't read, and every person I let down. I mourn the loss of my grandfather who died nearly a decade ago now just days before my 18th birthday. I weep for my mother, who ages right alongside me in a race I can't keep up with. I worry about my sister, who is still in the "fun part" of her 20s, already stronger than I remember when we were young enough to be playmates.

Another year in this world and in this solar system has passed for me. I will continue to do what I always do: walk until I run out of stretches of land, love ferociously and with intent, and try to make the next orbit more comfortable than the last.

Thank you for reading.