april's fool

a reflection on birthdays, disappointment, and learning to want something again

Apr 01, 2026

I have a birthday coming up.

I don't know why that sentence feels like a confession.

Some people dread New Year's Eve. The countdown, the pressure, the mandatory joy of it, the constant expectation that some version of you has to be left behind. Some people dread anniversaries, graduations, the first day of something new. The moments that come pre-loaded with meaning, that arrive already telling you how you're supposed to feel about them.

I've always been one of those people.

But for me, it's birthdays.

It's hard to explain what it's like to grow up with an indifference towards your own birthday. People don't really know what to do with that. They think you're being difficult, that you're putting on some kind of act, when you're really just looking for attention. But I promise you, it was never that.

I think there's a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from days that demand you show up emotionally.

They come with a script already written. You're supposed to feel celebratory, or hopeful, or grateful, or reflective — and the feeling is supposed to arrive on time and fully formed and appropriate to the occasion. And when it doesn't, when you're standing in the middle of a moment that's supposed to mean something but you just feel hollow, or anxious, or quietly grief-stricken in a way you can't explain — there's this additional layer of shame on top of it.

Not only are you not feeling the right thing, but you're failing the moment.

And I think somewhere along the way, without realizing it, I started to believe that wanting things — wanting a day to feel special, wanting to be celebrated, wanting to feel like the fact of my being here mattered — was embarrassing. Was asking too much. Was the setup to a joke I knew I was going to be the punchline of.

But it's easier, isn't it? To not want something than to want it and be disappointed again.

Looking back now, I can see how my birthday became this yearly reckoning with everything I wasn't and everything I wanted to be. Just another reminder that another year had passed and I still felt like I was waiting for my life to start. So I learned to say I don't really care about my birthday and mean it so completely that I forgot I ever cared at all.

I got so good at not wanting that the not-wanting started to feel like a personality, like wisdom. Like I'd figured out something other people hadn't.

I hadn't. I was just afraid.

And the fear is reasonable. It makes complete sense. These big, marked moments — the ones with dates attached, the ones that show up on the calendar whether you're ready or not — they have a way of asking you where you are. How far you've come. Whether the life you're living looks anything like the one you thought you'd have by now.

For a long time, I didn't like my answer.

But nobody warns you about this part: you don't always know when you finally set something aside.

There's no ceremony. No magical moment of clarity. No line between before and after.

You just wake up one morning and realize that the weight has changed. Maybe it's not as heavy, maybe it's not as intense. Like something that used to cut you has been worn smooth by time and touch and the quiet, invisible work of continuing to exist.

You can spend decades believing something about yourself — I am someone who hates this, I am someone who doesn't need this, I am someone who will always feel this way — and then wake up one morning and realize the person you were so sure you were has quietly become someone else.

I can't tell you what changed, exactly. I wish I could give you a clean answer, a turning point, a thing you could go do yourself. But I think it's simpler than that. I think I'm just tired — tired of making myself small on the days that are supposed to belong to me, tired of being the most indifferent person in the room about my own life, tired of armor I built so carefully I forgot I was wearing it.

The things we make peace with aren't always the things we think we're making peace with. Sometimes you spend years building walls around the days and moments that hurt, telling yourself you don't need what you were never given.

And then one day, without warning, without permission, those walls start to come down.

Not because you decided to be brave, or because you did the work or read the right book or had the right conversation. But because some part of you — some part you didn't even know was paying attention — decided it was tired of bracing.

Decided it wanted to try something different.

Decided that maybe the thing you've been running from is the thing you've been running toward all along.

I'm writing this before my birthday, not after. I don't know yet if the day itself will live up to this fragile, unfamiliar feeling of anticipation. Maybe it will still be hard. Maybe I'll still feel that old ache. Maybe I'm setting myself up for the very disappointment I've spent my life trying to avoid.

But here's what I know: for the first time in my life, I want my birthday to be good. I'm allowing myself to want it.

And that wanting feels like the most radical thing I've ever done.

If you're someone who has a complicated relationship with celebrations, with milestones, with days that are supposed to mean something but never quite do — I see you. You're not difficult. You're not ungrateful. There is nothing wrong with you.

You're just someone who learned to protect yourself from disappointment by keeping your expectations low.

And maybe, if you're lucky, if you give it enough time, you might wake up one year and realize you're not bracing anymore.

You might realize you're leaning in.

You might realize that the thing you spent so long avoiding is the thing you're finally ready to hold.

I turn another year older on April 1st. The universe gave me a birthday that's literally a joke, and I spent most of my life feeling like the punchline.

But this year, I'm the one laughing.

Simply because I'm still here. Because I kept going even when I hated going. Because time kept moving and I moved with it, even when I felt stuck.

So happy birthday to me.

This time, I mean it.

If you made it this far, thank you. I hope something in this piece stayed with you. Subscribe if you want to keep sharing these moments with me.

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