10/12/2025
Ah, birthdays. That peculiar ritual of cake and candles, of balloons and well-wishes, of people gathering around to celebrate the simple fact that you’ve survived another orbit around the sun. I’ve always found it curious—this collective insistence on treating the passage of time as a triumph, when in truth, it’s a quiet subtraction. A birthday, my dear, is not a plus one. It is a minus one.
You see, we are born with a finite ledger. Not one of us knows the exact balance, but we all know it’s dwindling. Each birthday is not an addition to our lives, but a deduction from the unknown total. It’s not a step forward—it’s a step closer. Closer to the end, yes, but also closer to clarity, if you’re paying attention.
I don’t say this to be morbid. Quite the opposite. I find it liberating. When you stop pretending that birthdays are a gain, you begin to appreciate what they truly are: a reckoning. A moment to pause, to reflect, to take stock of the time you’ve spent and the time you have left. It’s not about counting candles. It’s about counting choices.
That’s why I celebrate my birthday in a sober mood. Not somber, mind you—sober. There’s a difference. Somber is heavy, mournful, draped in black. Sober is clear-eyed, deliberate, stripped of illusion. I don’t need confetti or champagne. I need silence. I need solitude. I need a good glass of scotch and a better book. I need to sit with the ghosts of my decisions and ask them what they’ve taught me.
Because if a birthday is a minus one, then it’s also a reminder to make the next one count. To live with intention. To speak with precision. To love without condition. To forgive, not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary. To walk away when staying would cost too much. To stay when walking away would leave a hole too deep to fill.
I’ve seen people chase youth like it’s a currency. They Botox their foreheads, dye their hair, and post filtered versions of themselves in the hopes that time will forget them. But time forgets no one. It is the most ruthless accountant. It tallies every moment, every breath, every heartbeat. And on your birthday, it hands you the bill.
So I pay mine with grace. I light no candles. I make no wishes. I simply sit, and I remember. I remember the laughter and the losses, the victories and the betrayals, the quiet mornings and the sleepless nights. I remember the people who walked in, and the ones who walked out. I remember the versions of myself I’ve shed like old skin, and the truths I’ve clung to like lifelines.
And then, I rise. Not to celebrate, but to continue. To carry the weight of my years with dignity. To wear my age not as a burden, but as a badge. To live not in fear of the minus ones, but in reverence of what they reveal.
So if you ask me what a birthday means, I’ll tell you this: it is not a party. It is a punctuation. A comma in the sentence of your life. A chance to pause, to breathe, to consider. And if you’re lucky—if you’re truly paying attention—it is a chance to begin again.