Tomorrow is my birthday, and I feel a sense of stillness within me. Not excitement, not dread — just stillness.

In my mind, I imagine the kind of birthday that feels like it belongs in someone else’s story. A pub I’ve never stepped into, a glass of wine in my hand, laughter floating around me, and a flirty conversation with an interesting stranger who makes the hours feel weightless. I’d return home to a cold bed with a warm heart, whole from connection.

But reality looks different. I’ll be at home, with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon waiting on the table, a book I’ve been saving for the right moment, and a plate of fruit beside me. To some, that may sound boring. To me, it sounds peaceful. Peacefulness is a welcome change from many of my past birthdays, which were filled with disappointment, loneliness, despair, or the pressure to pretend I was having fun.

Birthdays carry expectations. They are supposed to be celebrations of joy, milestones of achievement, celebrations of life. Yet often, they highlight the questions I don’t have answers to: “Am I where I thought I would be? Am I happy? Am I surrounded by the people I should be surrounded by?”

I don’t know if I am happy, but I know I am content. And contentment, in its quiet way, feels like a small victory. Maybe birthdays aren’t meant to be loud every year. Perhaps sometimes they are meant to be gentle, a pause, a moment to breathe, to notice that being at peace with yourself is a celebration.

So tomorrow, I will drink my wine, turn the pages of my book, and let the evening pass softly. No party hats, no cake, no forced smiles. I’m still learning who I am, but I’m thankful I’ve made it this far.

And for now, that is enough.

Song of the day: “Je te laisserai des mots” by Patrick Watson

Helen