it’s my birthday and i’ll cry if i want to
arriving at 26 on Bambi legs
I’m unsure what I thought my life would look like at 26—my youthful imagination often struggled to envision myself as a full-fledged adult. Adulthood always felt out of reach, so much so that I refused to daydream about it for fear that I would jinx myself out of it. And yet, here I am, 26 years old.
Today is my birthday, and I’m big on celebrating; my birth of course (shoutout to my mum for that one), but mostly just how astonishing and bewildering the human experience is. I’m also big on self-reflection and holding space for the myriad of emotions my birthday always conquers. Last year I spent my birthday spilling tears in the name of someone else. I cried for the solace of my naivety, I cried for the harsh new reality I suddenly found myself in. My tears were entirely selfish—the only person I wished to comfort was myself.
That’s not out of the ordinary though—every girl cries on her birthday. It’s a right of passage. But this year I have countless new reasons to cry.
This year I cry because I look around and I see strangers with tired eyes, already heavy with the weight of the world on their morning subway commute. I cry because I overhear teenagers heavy with defeat, renouncing kindness and compassion in the name of self-preservation. I cry because my friends and I spend our Sundays analysing price tags at the grocery store with a hopeful level of mathematical certainty we know we don’t possess—because why the fuck is everything so expensive? I cry because most of my days are spent trying to convince anyone willing to listen that the world is burning and it’s up to us to save it, only to be met with pitiful smiles that let me know they think I’m crazy. Or delusion. Or both.
There are many reasons to cry—if I were to list them all out right now, this post would scroll into oblivion. Maybe I cry because the world I was born into is changing, and not for the better.
Worry not, my nativity was buried long ago. I know the world has always been a scary place—there have always been forces of evil hidden behind the transparent curtains that veil society. But, as Wicked reminded us last year, standing behind the curtain is most likely a weak man whose success only prevails when masked by illusion.
But I digress.
This isn’t a hottake piece. Today is the one day I’ll shut the fuck up about politics and society and the social & economic state of the world. Consider this more a love letter, to you, dearest reader. It’s been some time since we chatted like this. Heart to heart. Did you miss me? I’ve missed you, more than you’ll ever know.
So, let’s get poetic with it.
Today is my birthday. I look in the mirror and can no longer find my 17-year-old self, her chubby cheeks and sheepish grin lost to age but forever entombed within me. Last night, I locked eyes with my reflection and saw her—along with the many versions of myself I’ve buried over the years—and realised I belong very deeply to myself, in a way I formerly thought impossible. My body no longer feels like a prison I’m shackled to but a home I look forward to returning to each night.
25 felt like scaling a mountain, one I had arrived at suddenly, ill-prepared and heartbroken. A rewarding year I can only now describe, on the outskirts of its altitude, as transformative. If you’ve been here since Confessions of a 20-Something (as I know most of you have), you had a front row set to my self-destructive adventure toward redemption and salvation. I’ll never be able to fully describe the gratitude I have for each of you—thank you for giving me a purpose when I needed it most. I hope to make you proud, always.
Winter’s tradition is self-transformation, and pulling myself out of a grave always feels like this—dirty, heavy. Today, I want to wash away all the pain that no longer belongs here. I’ve survived the growing pains. I told you I would ;P
26. This age feels familiar, safe; like coming home. But I’m akin to bambi, always—no matter how steady the ground my legs are always wobbly, my body distorted by youth and blind optimism. Yet, I’ve remained kind and loving and hopeful, despite it all. That feels like something to celebrate in 2025, doesn’t it?
The world is burning. I see suspicion for the future in the eyes of my loved ones. I understand there is much pain in the world, more acutely than ever before (do you feel it too?), but I hold onto the bitter hope I have for humanity, if only out of spite.
Sorry, I know I said this wouldn’t be a political piece, but I’d be remiss if I failed to acknowledge the obvious. I know many of you might be wondering what radicalised me—why so much of my writing over the last few months has become politicised. For old times’ sake, I’ll confess:
You, dearest reader—you radicalised me. At the beginning of the year, I realised that I have a platform (however small) of people who trust me, who read what I publish, and who share it with their friends and families. That is an honour I don’t take lightly. So, I decided that I have a duty to you, dearest reader, to keep you informed. To keep you curious. To keep you hopeful.
Enough about you though, this is the one day a year that’s all about me <3
Like I said, I’m big on celebrating, so of course I had to host a birthday banger—2014 Tumblr-themed because 26 is the year of indie sleaze. So much of my life lately has been consumed by all the fear and hate that’s happening around the world and I won’t lie, staying informed so I can report and analyse it all is exhausting. Mentally and physically.
But, when I looked around the room on Friday night—clamouring in a pool of sweaty bodies swaying to the music, worries forgotten in the haze of one too many drinks, drowned out by innocent laughter and poorly sung lyrics—I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdness of the human condition. How happiness and pain are so intertwined, how fragile the balance between good and evil truly is, how easily entire institutions and ideologies can crumble. And yet we dance.
All of that pain, existing in the background, muted by unadulterated collective joy. If only for one night.
This is why I go all out for my birthday. I’m not really celebrating my mortal decline. I do it for that split second that happens every year: the moment that pain disappears from the room, when suddenly there is not an ounce of agony surrounding my closest friends and community. We dance and dance and dance, protected by a fortress of collective joy.
Maybe it’s a bit selfish—I chase that feeling of fulfillment like a high. But, I like to think I make up for my egotistical bid for satisfaction by throwing a great party.
You can be the judge of that.
I don’t know where I imagined myself to be at this age. That hardly matters now though, I’ve arrived the way I am. I can accept that, and all its implications, with open arms as I stand on the edge of the greatest version of myself yet.
I am reaching for my future with greedy palms, no longer letting adversity slip my grip. I am ready to take—to become.
But fuck, it’s my birthday, so I’ll cry if I want to.
