For most, birthdays are a time of joy and celebration, but for me, they have always been a bittersweet reminder of love, loss, and resilience. Although I don’t remember any birthdays before foster care, those during that time were marked by a game of sorts—would my mom remember to call me? Most years, she wouldn’t, and I’d spend a good portion of the day in tears, feeling the sting of being forgotten.
In the initial years, waking up on my birthday in foster care was dreadful. I wished I could wake up to my mom, but instead, I faced the harsh reality of her absence. As time passed, I found a way to cope by using my birthday as a day for self-reflection. I would wake early and walk to the park at the end of the street. Laying in the grass, still damp from the morning dew, I would gaze up at the clouds, just like I used to do as a child with my mother and lose myself in thoughts and reflections about my life and dreams. The park became my sanctuary, where the whispers of the wind and the caress of the grass provided solace. As I lay in the grass, I often thought about the times my mom and I would spend together before everything changed. I wondered if she thought about those moments, too, and if she missed me as much as I missed her. These reflections, though painful, gave me a sense of connection to my past.
Reflecting on my mother’s addiction and the walls it built between us made me realize how deeply it affected my sense of self-worth. Her absence on my birthday wasn’t just about being forgotten; it symbolized the larger void her addiction had created in my life. Understanding this helped me to start healing.
On the other hand, my father was a stark contrast. Despite our strained relationship and my aversion to him, he never failed to acknowledge my birthday. Even when I didn’t want to hear from him, he would find a way to send a message, whether through a letter or someone else. As much as I claimed to hate it, his consistency meant a lot to me. It softened my heart toward him, even if just slightly. Every birthday card from my father brought a flood of mixed emotions. Reflecting on his efforts to stay in touch despite our strained relationship made me reconsider my aversion to him. I realized that his consistency was his way of showing love, which I began to appreciate over time. I moved around after college, yet my dad still managed to send a birthday card, which held a special place in my heart.
Throughout the years, I struggled with excitement and dread as my birthday approached. The day’s excitement often clashed with the fear of being forgotten by those I loved, particularly my mother. However, I have been blessed with amazing people who made it a point to celebrate me, with my best friend always at the forefront, turning my birthday into an entire weekend of festivities. We would explore local events, indulge in our favorite food and drinks, and enjoy each other’s company. One of the most memorable celebrations was a scavenger hunt birthday party, where we split into teams and captured pictures of or with specific items. The pictures were a hilarious and treasured outcome of the day’s fun. Each celebration with friends reinforced the belief that I was worth celebrating. Reflecting on these moments, I realized how their love and efforts slowly chipped away at the insecurities that foster care had instilled in me. These experiences taught me the value of friendship and self-worth.
In college, I started throwing myself themed birthday parties, the most notable being the black-and-white party where too many college students would stuff themselves into a tiny apartment with music blasting from a small speaker and drinks being endlessly poured. Attendees were only allowed to wear black or white, creating a visually striking and meaningful celebration. As a resident assistant, these parties also provided a safe space for other resident assistants to party without the risk of getting caught, making them even more special. Hosting black-and-white parties in college was more than just fun; it was an affirmation of my identity and worth. Reflecting on these events, I saw how they allowed me to embrace and celebrate who I was.
Post-college, my birthday celebrations took on new dimensions. Prom at the school where I worked with individuals with disabilities often coincided with my birthday. It was a joyous event loved by both students and staff. I didn’t mind getting dressed up, dancing the night away with my students, and then heading to our traditional post-prom karaoke bar. Celebrating my birthday with them taught me that birthdays should always be celebrated.
Over time, the words of those closest to me began to resonate deeply: “I am worth celebrating.” I embraced this belief and started planning activities I enjoyed, such as traveling. A pivotal moment came when I was on a plane headed to Thailand on my birthday. At that moment, I realized my feelings toward my birthday had shifted from dread to joy and gratitude. Sitting on the plane to Thailand, I reflected on the journey that brought me to this point. The shift from dreading my birthday to embracing it was profound. This reflection made me realize how far I had come and how much I had grown, turning my birthday into a celebration of resilience and transformation.
Today, I am thankful for my birthday. It serves as a reminder that I am blessed to see another year. Although I don’t have any specific traditions, the past two years have been extraordinary as I’ve celebrated my birthday with my son. This shared celebration has given my birthday even more meaning and joy.
Birthdays, once a source of pain and conflict, have transformed into a celebration of life, growth, and the beautiful connections I’ve made. Reflecting on my journey, I see the power of resilience, love, and the importance of celebrating oneself. No matter how bittersweet the past has been, each birthday is a testament to survival, transformation, and the endless potential for joy.