Today is my birthday.
I am turning 22 years old.
I like making a big deal out of my birthday. It feels selfish, vain, self-centred of course, but I truly do enjoy being the centre of attention for just this one day out of the year. I like getting presents and cards; I love waking up to all my friends sending me kind words and wishing me a happy birthday. I never got used to having friends who cared about me this much, every act of kindness still makes me tear up.
As a teenager, I hated my birthday. I hated seeing my friends, I hated being in the spotlight. Every card that said L--- on it felt like a threat. I spent my entire youth hiding away, hoping nobody would notice the weird lanky kid who listened to too much music and couldn’t figure out how to talk to people. The fact that every June there was one day where I couldn’t hide—or, perhaps, that I would be confronted with just how effective my hiding was—was too much for teenage me to handle. I would cry and bitch and moan until I could go to bed and wake up on yet another day when nobody cared who I was.
My 18th birthday happened during COVID. It wasn’t full lockdown at the time, but I was still limited to having around 20 people at my party. I didn’t mind. I would’ve had less if that didn’t feel so pathetic. It was the last birthday where I really felt alone.
A few months later I realized I was trans. The night before my 19th birthday I went to a rave with some friends I had met at uni. The clock struck midnight, and my friends turned to me and yelled “Happy Birthday Lucy!!” It was the first time I had ever heard that. The rest of the night was a nightmare, and I had to brave birthday lunch with my family on literally no sleep, but I didn’t care. I had been the centre of attention, even for just a few minutes, and I had loved it because for the first time it was me, not some facsimile of a person who had been holding my place.
I moved out of home 2 weeks after my 20th birthday. By the time my 21st rolled around, I finally had the confidence to organize something. I invited my friends to a picnic, even though it was the middle of winter. It was the biggest thing I had ever asked people to do for my birthday, the first time I had ever really made a fuss about it. I was touched that anyone would care enough to spend time with me on my birthday. I still am.
I’ve been making a big deal out of my birthday this year. I haven’t organized anything big, but I have made a point of telling everyone I know that my birthday is coming up. It’s silly and kind of annoying I know, but I really do feel like this is such a big marker of how far I’ve come as a person. Every birthday now is a reminder of my self-actualization; my perseverance; my newfound confidence, friends.
Loving my birthday means loving myself and, for maybe the first time, I do.