How to Birthday
My sister and I share our birthdays, born just a day apart. Growing up, we celebrated together every year. She’s younger than me, but it never really felt that way, at least not to others. Maybe it was her confidence. Her ease around people. Everyone mistook her for being older.
I didn’t mind. I was a shy kid, the kind who preferred the corners of the room to the center. I liked being near the action but not in it.
Every summer, our parents would host a little garden party for our birthdays. There would be one birthday cake, and we’d blow out the candles together. Friends and family gathered on the lawn, and I remember it always felt festive without feeling overwhelming. What most people didn’t see was that I was hiding behind my sister. Letting the spotlight fall on someone else. And quietly enjoying that.
Being a summer baby meant that school was out during my birthday. A small blessing, in that it saved me from the classroom song, birthday attention, and the inevitable cookies or cupcakes brought in to share. Our birthday parties had more of her friends than mine, but I didn’t mind. I had a few close friends, not many, but enough. What I remember most is the quiet comfort I felt in not having to perform happiness, or celebration. Not having to be seen.
Later, at university, nothing really changed. Birthdays fell between semesters. A moment of stillness that didn’t ask for much. Conveniently placed for slipping by unnoticed. There was a pattern forming. Each year, I found subtle ways to avoid the weight of that particular kind of attention.
But, eventually, the context shifted. I was in my twenties, living on my own, and surrounded by friends who showed their love a bit more loudly. Birthdays became occasions to celebrate in the way everyone else did. Parties, dinners, dancing, drinking, staying out too late. The kind of nights that live loudly and fade quickly. I enjoyed those moments. They were fun. But something always felt slightly out of sync. Like I was playing a part I hadn’t auditioned for. I still showed up, and I liked the version of myself who did. But something was missing.
It was my thirtieth birthday that changed things.
The day before, my sister asked what I wanted to do. Where I wanted to go. What I wanted to eat. Her enthusiasm was genuine. I normally would've answered quickly, but this time, I paused. Something felt different. Over the past year, I had begun meditating, and had started paying more attention to the feelings that surfaced quietly, without reason. What I noticed was discomfort. A kind of pressure that was hard to name. It wasn’t about turning 30. It was about the unspoken expectation I felt to make something of the day. To make it count.
So I told her the truth. I didn’t want to celebrate.
She was surprised. Maybe a bit confused. So I explained that I wanted a quiet birthday. No invitations. No toasts. No decisions about what to wear, what to eat or where to go.
I turned off my phone the night before and decided to fast for the day. Strangely, that made things easier. Fewer things to coordinate, fewer boxes to check, fewer moments to try and perfect. I meditated in silence for three hours that morning and still remember some of the places I went. Memories that weren’t thoughts. Feelings that weren’t emotions. A kind of presence with myself I hadn’t felt before.
Later that day, I went to see my family. We had cake, quietly. It didn’t feel like a birthday so much as it felt like a still point in time. A moment of returning home, not just to the people I grew up with but to myself. I spent the rest of that evening journaling.
When I turned my phone back on the next day, messages flooded in, surprised friends, missed calls. I began replying, one by one. But I noticed that something had shifted. Connecting back to others now came from a place of deeper connection to myself. The reflection came first, the participation after.
That was also the year I stopped drinking, and I suspect looking back, that also made my birthdays more memorable and more meaningful for me.
That spontaneous birthday practice became a ritual. Each year, I would fast for the number of years I was turning. I would turn off my phone. I would meditate for longer than usual, write for longer than usual, and say less than usual. It became the way I reminded myself how to return within myself. I did that for seven years.
And then, I moved to Portugal.
I made new friends. Started a new life. And when my birthday arrived in Lisbon that first year, I felt something I hadn’t in a while. A desire to share. To celebrate, not to be celebrated. To gather people, not to be the center of them. So I rented a boat on the river in Lisbon. Everyone dressed in white. As friends stepped aboard, we collected their phones. We drifted down the river without screens, music playing, food shared, eyes meeting. Laughter. Conversation. Connection.
Somehow I had brought the rituals with me into the gathering. The distraction stayed out, the connection stayed in. The next year, I did it again. More people. More joy. Still no phones.
Last year, my partner surprised me with a trip to the Swiss Alps. It was quieter. Colder too. A summer mountain escape, a few close friends, silent mornings. Again, the outer shape had changed. But I recognized the same feeling on the inside.
This year, I’ve celebrated in different ways, with different people. No single answer to what the birthday was, or was supposed to be. Just a moment, really, to notice how much I’ve changed.
I used to think there needed to be a blueprint, a tradition to hold on to. But maybe that’s what birthdays are best at revealing. The gap between who I was and who I’ve become. A part of me still craves solitude. And another part of me craves connection. And they don’t need to be in conflict, anymore. The celebration with self and the celebration with others can coexist, so long as neither asks for performance.
The places have changed. The people have changed. The feelings, too. But each year, the desire is the same. To return, to reflect, and to notice.
Birthdays have become the mirror I forget about until I’m standing in front of it, wondering what’s changed. They help me remember that change is not something that happens once. It’s something that’s still happening. One quiet, invisible shift at a time.
And that is how I learned to birthday.
