Father Time Crashed My Birthday

My birthday was last week, and there was a mix of emotions. It was the first birthday since getting sober that I was actually excited about—my past two had been depressive messes, full of wallowing and self-pity.  I convinced myself that this one was going to be different.

I used to treat my birthday like it was the poor man’s Met Gala—countdowns, curated themes, and wildly unrealistic expectations.  But somewhere around 30, the magic kind of fizzled.

Looking back, I think a lot of that was about trying to feel loved by creating the image of being loved.  I invited people I barely knew—some I didn’t even like—because a packed room felt like proof that I mattered.

There was a time I genuinely had a lot of friends, but even then, I lived in constant fear that no one would show up. Or that only a few would—and I’d be left feeling awkward and exposed.

For some reason, that felt like the worst-case scenario. Not the people who gossiped about me behind my back, or the ones who Irish-exited before I even blew out the candles (both of which, by the way, did happen). But the idea of looking unpopular? That was the real horror show.

In hindsight, the parties were mid at best.  They were chaotic, loud, and more about curating a vibe than actually enjoying myself. But in my head, they were legendary. Probably because the illusion was easier to hold onto than the truth: I was exhausted and kind of faking it.

That cycle repeated itself throughout my twenties. By the time I got sober, the whole performance had lost its shine. I didn’t want a production—I wanted peace. I wasn’t necessarily sad on my post-sobriety birthdays—they just felt kind of flat. Like… this is it?

This year, I kept it small. It was lovely, really—surrounded by people who actually know me, actually care. The kind of celebration I used to say I wanted but never gave myself permission to have.

Still, that old birthday buzz? Nowhere to be found.

There was a lot of anticipation leading up to it, but once the day arrived, I found myself quietly counting down the hours until it was over. Not because I wanted it to end—more like this subtle, creeping dread. Because once your birthday’s over… that’s it. It’s gone for another year.

And if that’s the case—if it’s here and gone in a blink—then what was I even so excited about?

Then, naturally, my brain took a sharp left turn into time.

Thinking too much about the past always gives me a lump in my throat. I’m not exactly middle-aged, but I’m definitely past the phase where aging feels hypothetical.

Sure, age is technically just a construct, but that doesn’t change the math: none of us are getting any younger, and none of us know when we’re going to take our last breath.

That’s usually when the internal spiral hits:

Am I living my life—or the one someone else expected of me?
What dreams am I keeping on hold until I finally feel “ready”?
And if this version of me died today, what would I regret never saying out loud?

You know, just your standard birthday musings. Casual thoughts about death and unmet potential. Totally chill.

After this perfectly-timed spiral, I felt like I’d been gut-punched. And when that happens, I tend to get unmotivated and overwhelmed. It’s like the grim reaper of reality shows up to put me back in my place.

I wasn’t even inspired to write this. Every time I sat down, my inner critic chimed in: This isn’t good enough. Just skip this week. You’ve been so consistent—take a break. Wait for inspiration. She’s like that toxic friend who pretends to root for you but secretly hopes you fail. Subtle sabotage. Sneaky bitch.

I’ve gotten better at not playing the comparison game, but there’s still this constant tug-of-war between am I doing too much and am I not doing enough? Am I forcing something that’s not working—or is there still more I could give?

And then, right on cue, time strolls back in.

How much of it am I wasting just thinking about this, when I could be using that energy to actually try?

Sometimes I get these flashbacks of little-kid me—wild, curious, dreaming big—and while it feels like another lifetime, it also passed in a blink of an eye.

When I’m around older generations, I sometimes wonder what it feels like to see youth from a distance—what memories it stirs, what emotions it brings.

Lately, I’ve started to notice myself looking at younger generations the same way—with a mix of nostalgia, curiosity, and that strange ache that comes from realizing how fast time moves.

It’s a heavy thought, I know—but not one we need to run from. Not to spiral about, but to reflect on—gently. Just enough to remind ourselves: we don’t get time back.

So we might as well use what we’ve got.

Writing that brings a bit of relief. Like an exhale. It reminds me that I can do what I want—without being hijacked by that big, ugly four-letter word: FEAR.

Lately, I’ve been seeing this trend on social media—side-by-side clips of actors from early 2000s movies and what they look like now. And wow… they’ve aged. Drastically.

Then it hit me—25 years ago, I was 8.

Twenty-five years. That’s a long time.

That’s when it hit me: aging is the one thing we have absolutely zero control over.

Even typing that makes my chest tighten.

I’m not afraid of wrinkles or crow’s feet—I actually think there’s something sacred about getting older. It’s a privilege not everyone gets.

What gets me is the time. The speed of it. The quiet fear that I won’t get to everything I want to do before the clock runs out.

It’s terrifying.
But it’s also kind of liberating.

We’re not going to be here forever—so we might as well do whatever the hell we want while we are.