birthday tears

an (unfortunate) annual trend i’m learning to understand and reimagine.

Nov 13, 2023

The first time I cried on my birthday was when I was around 4 years old. I stood in front of a giant Costo cake, prepared to blow out the candles. Just as I got closer to the flame, another gust of air came sweeping in before me to dim them all out. I stared ahead and saw another kid from my parent’s friend grin with mischievous excitement. I immediately walked out of the room and bawled.

But this wasn’t the only time when I struggled to hold back the waterworks. On my 9th birthday, I wept as my gifted and talented teacher put me in timeout out of spite for saying the word “cheater.” On my 16th birthday, I screamed, with tears streaming down my face, at my parents on the way to Korean BBQ, arguing with them on why you can’t just “get over” depression. And on my 20th birthday, I walked past the USC journalism building sobbing, wondering why I was struggling to make friends in college, with the new decade signaling my social failures.

In between these birthday years, most of them were also full of tears, although the reasons were not as memorable (or maybe so traumatic that my mind has blocked them out). But for the longest time, I thought it was just me. It wasn’t till recently that I discovered through social media that other people had similar crying festivities growing up, that “only hot people cry on their birthdays.”

The truth is, birthdays can suck. It can resurface the worst reminders of life—that I’m not appreciated enough, that I’m not worthy enough, that I’m not seen. That X person forgot to text me birthday wishes, that I wasn’t surprised at the crack of midnight with a present, that I’m simply just a side character in a vast sea of main character narratives. That despite the self-improvement initiatives and fight for a better life, some things have remained stagnant. That my youth is falling through the palms of my hands, only to be met with more elder struggles on the horizon.

But I’m learning to reorient the way I feel about my birthday tears and the day in general. I’ve grown to realize that birthdays are the one time of the year when I deserve to be celebrated for just being me. For just existing. That I don’t need to give any justification for why I exist, that I simply am.

I turned 24 several weeks ago, and I chose to take celebrations into my own hands. With my new space in San Francisco, I decided to host a special tea house experience bringing together both old friends and new companions. I felt like a creative director designing an immersive, culinary experience—focusing on everything from the positioning of the lights to the matcha drinks that would be served. It was everything I’d hoped it would be. Friends convening in serendipity. A potluck dinner that filled my fridge with leftovers. Acoustic tunes in the background. Reconnecting with peers from past lives.

I’m still learning to reimagine my relationship with birthdays, to turn the once tears into aging smiles that will embrace resilience. I hope to become more emotionally courageous, knowing that I have agency over my own happiness and that no matter how hard my life gets, I’ll still be able to celebrate and blow out the candles on my own terms.

I was born in 1999, on the cusp of a new century. And I’m so grateful to be here.