A Quiet Celebration Of Me

HEALING

8 MIN READ

This morning, my puppy woke me up by nosing his happy birthday toy, that says “Happy Birthday” into my hand—a coincidence, sure, but one that felt just serendipitous enough to set the tone for the day. My girlfriend, three years into knowing all my quirks and cravings, brought me my favorite breakfast in bed: homemade banana bread and mint green tea. And for once, I didn’t rush to check my phone.

At 16, birthdays were performances. The goal wasn’t feeling loved; it was looking loved. A highlight reel of posts, tags, texts. The bigger the audience, the more successful the day. Internet relationships—some so thinly veiled I couldn’t even call them acquaintances—meant more to me than I’d care to admit. Each “Happy Birthday!” in my DMs or my comments section was a tiny trophy for my teenage ego. By the end of the day, it didn’t matter whether I’d felt truly seen or celebrated. It only mattered that people noticed.

And even before social media, birthdays weren’t fully mine. My family’s version of “celebration” was hurried and convenient: candles blown out at 11 PM on Christmas Eve. By the time midnight came, my birthday was eclipsed by Christmas, swallowed whole by the holiday. My actual birthday often felt like an afterthought.

But today, on my 22nd birthday, things feel… different. For the first time, I didn’t feel the pressure to share my day with everyone else or to make it performative. My girlfriend and our puppy made the entire Christmas Day about me—quietly, lovingly, in ways that felt authentic.

We spent the morning apartment hunting, walking through potential new homes, searching for the perfect high rise in the heart downtown Baltimore. I can still picture it—the light streaming through the windows, the kind of view that lets you watch the sunrise from the same vantage point as the clouds. For a moment, I could imagine us there: high above the city, unpacking boxes, building a life together, and living closer to my best friend, no longer separated by the 17-hour stretch that’s defined the last year. When I was 16, I would’ve measured this day by the material gifts I had received. Now, the luxury lies in these realities of the near future—the privilege to continue creating a future with someone I love.

The rest of the day unfolded in serene simplicity: binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy, painting canvases for our future home, and savoring a dinner of steak and scalloped potatoes, and a wine glass that was refilled before I even noticed it was empty.

I can count on both hands the number of people who texted me happy birthday, and you know what? I don’t mind. I’m not sad about the lack of notifications, not nostalgic for the days when my worth felt tethered to a post. The people who matter—who really matter—are here. Or they called. Or they texted in a way that made me feel like their words were a hug.

This birthday wasn’t loud. It wasn’t big or flashy or the kind of thing anyone would think to post about. It was calm. Quiet. Real.

And that’s what I think I’ll remember most—not the noise of those teenage years when love felt like a popularity contest, but the stillness of now. The steady, solid knowing that the people I value hold me just as close as I hold them. That doing nothing with the right people feels like everything.

If this is what 22 is like, I think I’ll stay awhile.