When I was little, my parents forbade me from celebrating my birthday. My father used to say, "Are you really so important to celebrate being born?" and my mother would say, "I still regret not having an abortion." Now I understand that they were young, foolish, and cruel, but back then, I felt that my very existence was a mistake and that a birthday was something to be ashamed of, let alone celebrate.
I celebrated my first birthday at 15 or 16 - I don't remember exactly, but it was a failure because of my depression and my attempt to curl up in a corner and become invisible.
It took me years to learn to accept myself, to learn to celebrate the simple fact that I am alive and have a chance to do something interesting, to create something new. It also took years to reclaim that childhood anticipation of a holiday, the ability to be amazed and rejoice in a birthday the way only children can. To wait for a miracle and delight in it.
In two days, I will turn 47, and I have finally reclaimed this day once and for all. I left the trauma in the past, because the pain we experienced can change us, but it should not limit us, destroy us, or define who we are.
On this day, I am a child eagerly awaiting her birthday, rejoicing in the fact that she is loved. So be it!
(Digital drawing, 2026)