A Birthday Wrapped in Fear, Not Balloons

 

Today is my birthday.

But there’s no joy in this breath. There’s no dancing candlelight in my soul. 

Last year, I was angry on this day. Deeply. Bitterly. And then, a friend died—not by coincidence, but by divine confrontation. It felt like God was blackmailing me into gratitude. "You’re angry about your life? Here—watch it be taken from someone else."

And so I folded. I said thank you. I whispered gratitude with trembling lips. But deep down, I wasn’t grateful. I was terrified.

What Does It Mean to Be Alive When You Feel Dead Inside?

I am breathing, yes. But living? No.

I have nothing to show. 

All I have are years—a lot of them now—and a long trail of almosts, maybes, and could-have-beens.

I watch people younger than me build legacies from scratch. I see people with fewer opportunities thrive in systems I can’t even touch. And me? I’m here. Existing. Floating in a fog of barely-ness.

The Guilt of Feeling Unseen

Even writing this feels like a sin. Because I know what the world will say.

“She’s alive.”
“She’s healthy.”
“She should be grateful.”
“She should visit a cancer ward before complaining.”

I’ve heard it all. And maybe they’re right.

Maybe I’m ungrateful. Maybe I’m childish for wanting more. Maybe I’m wrong for crying on my birthday when others are buried before they see theirs.

But let me say this, in bold and raw truth:

Being grateful doesn’t mean I don’t feel the ache.
Being alive doesn’t mean I’m not drowning.

The Quiet Failures That Scream the Loudest

I feel like I’ve failed. My children especially. My parents. Everyone. Yes, my children are loved. Yes, I am present. I kiss them. I hug them. I listen when they cry and celebrate when they laugh.

But I know love isn’t a roof.
Love isn’t school fees.
Love doesn’t feed the future.

And though I give them all the heart I have, I fear I’m cheating them out of something more certain, more successful.

I fear they’ll grow up and say, “Our mother was kind, but she couldn’t give us a better life.”

And the weight of that fear… it crushes me daily.

Aging Without Arrival: When Time Moves But You Stand Still

Every year, the clock ticks louder.

It says, “You’re running out of time.”
It says, “You’re still here, with empty hands.”
It says, “You said next year would be better. But look.”
And it points at my broken promises to myself.

I have tried. I have started. I have built. But it always ends in smallness. In shadows. In being unnoticed. Like the world doesn’t hear my voice, no matter how loud I scream inside.

God, Are You Angry With Me?

I wonder if God is disappointed too.
If He looks at me and thinks, “This is not what I made you for.”
If He sees my guilt and my grief and turns His face away.

Because even my prayers feel like apologies.

“I’m sorry for feeling this way.”
“I’m sorry I’m not better.”
“I’m sorry I’m not stronger.”

And still, I pray. Still, I believe. Even if it’s with a tired heart.

What If This Is All There Is?

That’s the scariest part.
Not death.
But the idea that this is life.

That maybe this is as good as it gets. That maybe the story doesn’t turn. That maybe I’ll always be the one who "almost" made it. That maybe joy is for others, and I’m just here to clap for them while I bleed in silence.

But I’m Still Here. And That Must Mean Something

Even in this sadness.
Even in this aching birthday.
Even in this empty-feeling age.

I am still here.
I showed up for my life, even when it broke me.
I wake up. I care. I cry. I laugh when I can.
I carry people, even when I can’t carry myself.

And that is not nothing.

To Anyone Else Crying On Their Birthday

You are not ungrateful.
You are not a failure.
You are not invisible.

You are human. And this world sometimes gives us more pain than it gives us praise. But you have breath. You have awareness. You have the courage to name your sorrow—and that is divine.

There is no shame in being sad, even while alive. There is no crime in hoping for more, even while thankful.

“Happy Birthday, dear soul.  That’s the fight.”