Annual pre-birthday meltdown

You're invited

It happens each spring. I celebrate my friends whose birthdays fall in March and April and passively think, oh, right, that will be me in a few months. April becomes May, the shortest month of all. I blink and it’s a three-day weekend.

As June nears, I decide I should “do something” that would make me feel happy. Throw the right party. The right non-party. The right fundraiser or ceremony with the right person or people.

But as far back as I can recall, my birthday feels hollow. An opportunity to do whatever I want and yet, I flounder.

Something about timelines sets me off. Particularly when we are younger, age is a natural point of comparison. Was she walking by 12 months? Menstruating by 12 years? Did she have her first kiss, first boyfriend, and lose her virginity in a standard progression?

I remember feeling old when I turned 21. Like I had already squandered my youth. There I was, surrounded by a group of friends in a bar in Brooklyn and all I could think was that it was already too late to live how I wanted.

A decade and a half later, at least part of that sentiment remains.

*

Do you feel this way generally, a friend asks, or just around your birthday?

Mostly around my birthday, I reply. Perhaps the holiday season, too.

She nods. That’s good, she says. At least it’s temporary. We might just have to accept these periodic regressions.

*

I’m not sure I ever properly mourned those younger selves who already felt like they’d failed. Who felt like they were behind simply because, by age ___, they hadn’t yet done ___, ___, or ___.

I overheard a snippet on NPR the other day wherein Terry Gross elicited the following from her interviewee. He said that, although he is in his mid-60s, he still senses his fifteen-year-old self within him. Like a Matryoshka doll or, in his words, an onion.

Birthdays are a natural point at which we confront our inner layers. A celestial knife that slices through and reminds us where we were this time last year, and the ones before that.

As my birthday nears, my unease grows. In an attempt to avoid self-reflection, I turn my turmoil outward. I attack the people close to me and throw tantrums over inconsequential things.

This happened last year too. After pushing someone away in dramatic fashion, I “chose” to spend my birthday alone. The experience was instructive, if deeply unenjoyable.

Something about the external marker of a birthday reminds me of my needs. My reliance on other people and the ensuing vulnerability that scares me. A reminder that if I ask anything of anyone, they might say no. Or worse, they’ll say yes—and then, somehow I’m stuck with them and all their messy humanness forever.

This is a lot to unravel. Years of nested dolls who’ve all felt versions of a lack.

At least I’m paying attention now. That’s the first step. Thus, a name: my annual pre-birthday meltdown. It lasts anywhere from mid-May to mid-June.

The funny thing is, I’ve already learned that it’s not about what I do for my birthday. Two years ago, I threw an epic, or certainly memorable, party on top of a nearby mountain. I was grateful for and overwhelmed by how many people made the trek.

But the next morning, I woke up alone. Dozens of friends who’d climbed a mountain carrying cake and snacks and a keg seemingly vanished into the ether.

I remember it was a beautiful day, and all I wanted was to be outside with someone I cared about. One person in particular came to mind. But that didn’t happen. It turns out that person had made plans with other people, at my party the night before, and hadn’t invited me. So I took a long walk alone.

It’s not about the party. Instead, it’s how I feel about my life and myself.

We need the right mirrors. People who show up and help us be our best by simply seeing us as we are. Not ones we have to chase, or entice, or charm.

But we—I—also need to be willing to accept what is already here. As I reflect on past birthdays, I notice how cared for I am. How often I have been surrounded by love.

This is not a rebuke of anyone in my life. I trust I am rich beyond measure, if only I could see it.

In a perverse way, I wonder if my annual meltdowns are an attempt to test the people around me. To see if they will stay even when—particularly when—I’m not charming or helpful or cute.

It’s a horrible strategy, I know. It causes the opposite of what I want. And I’m getting sick of it.

The meltdowns prevent me from being present. From having perspective and showing up for the work, love, and pain as needed.

It’s exhausting to dwell in the past. It’s exhausting to navel-gaze as if I am unique.

The funny thing about life is, we all have birthdays. The universal holiday. What’s less unique than that.

I turn 36 next Monday, June 10th. My current meltdown already seems to be lessening, and by then I hope it’ll have fully passed. In the meantime, I welcome what blessings you care to offer.

May we all be so lucky to make it another year and to live with the freedom, health, and resources we deserve. Again, what is more universal than that.

Self-portraits on film from 2021, 2022, and 2023.