My birthday is coming up. Which I have subtly, delicately, with the grace of a foghorn reminded certain people about.

Not because I need a parade. (Although, let’s be clear, I would not decline a parade.) But because this year feels like dragging a reluctant soul through molasses. Everything is a chore. The dishes loom like existential judgment. The garbage takes on symbolic meaning. Even joy feels like it requires a calendar invite and two follow-ups.

And there I am. Hello. Hi. Still here. Same me. Slightly more tired, slightly less willing to pretend that crumbs on the counter aren’t a metaphor.

There’s a quiet realization sneaking in this year, uninvited but oddly clarifying. I cannot wait on others to make the day feel like mine. I cannot outsource joy. Apparently, Amazon does not deliver “meaningful birthday experience with emotional validation.” (Rude.)

So now I’m wondering do I plan my own birthday? Do I take myself out, toast myself, celebrate myself like the independent, slightly dramatic, self-aware woman I have become?

Because here’s the truth.  I refuse to let anyone, intentionally or just through the gentle negligence of being human, steal my sunshine. (Do you know that song?!) There will be no grand theft joy this year. Not on my watch.

And yert I’m watching. Curious. Will the others notice? Will they arrive at the moment with cinematic timing, suddenly aware, suddenly present? Or will we continue as we often do, connected at high speed, passing each other like ships with excellent Wi-Fi and terrible awareness?

I don’t know.

But I do know this. The dishes will still be there. The garbage will still need to go out. Life, in all its mundane persistence, will continue tapping me on the shoulder.

And somewhere in between all of that, I will carve out a moment. Maybe small, maybe imperfect but mine.

Let’s see what tomorrow decides to remember.