It feels like a distant past, but I remember a time when my birthday would excite me. Like most people, my core memories of birthday elation were established in my youth. As a child, the mere thought of it brought a smile to my face.

Perhaps it’s because I knew what to expect. I’d sift through my closet the night before my birthday, piecing together my freshest gear for a memorable outfit. I’d restlessly lie in my bed, eagerly anticipating the blare of my alarm clock. I’d wake up to a barrage of warm smiles and loving embraces while family members peeled into my room one by one yelling, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHAQ!” It was always a day filled with intention and attention. A day filled with celebrations, acquainted pleasantries, and endearing expressions. And I loved that.

Being excited, each year as my birthday approached, I had this gripping anticipation. It was the type of anticipation that gave me butterflies in my stomach—butterflies as I’d conjure up ideas of the presents I’d get. I’d fantasize about the money I’d be gifted as family members and relatives hugged me and quietly slipped an envelope into my hand. I’d gleefully smile as I thought about the daps I’d get and chats I’d have with unfamiliar faces as I walked through the hallways at school, all because it was my birthday.

In my late teens, however, something changed. It could have been me and the “cool” temperament I was developing. It could have been my familial circumstances and perceptions of maturity that diminished the calls for celebration. But I lost that excitement and anticipation that kept me up at night, and my birthday became just another day.

It took years for this to shift, as I stood in a state of detachment. I was detached because I held onto this perception of invincibility and a bundle of expectations. I expected to see my next birthday. I expected to see the same friends and family year after year. And I expected to grow old along with these people. But when I turned 25, I realized my expectations were but fantasies masquerading as the truth.

On the night I turned 25, as the clock struck 12 a.m., I recall lying in bed, gazing through the darkness at my popcorned ceiling as my mind wandered. It wasn’t unusual for me to be awake at that hour, but that night felt different. I laid there, trying to slow my thoughts in search of some sleep. And then it hit me.

Damn, I said to myself. My brother didn’t reach this age.

That night, and each year after 25, became a reminder—not just of the time that had slipped away, but of all the time that my brother never got to see. It was as if the weight of my birthday had shifted, bearing more than just another year of my life but also the absence of his. I found myself reckoning with a grief I couldn’t name, and a realization of how much I had taken for granted. All those years I thought of birthdays as a given, as something that just happened. But now, I saw the fragility in each new chapter.

I became plagued by the reality that my life, everyone one I knew and everything I am, could change in an instant—a reality I would never be prepared for it. But why should I be? Because what would life even be if we knew it all? If I could have seen every curveball before it came, every loss, every change? It’s a question I keep turning over in my head, knowing full well there’s no answer that’ll ever feel complete. But as the years have gone on, I’ve learned that maybe that’s the point. The unexpected, with all its heartache and uncertainty, is also what gives life its rawness, its beauty. It’s a lesson that’s hard to learn, but harder to ignore once you’ve seen it.

11 days after I wished my aunt a happy birthday, she did the same for me.

“Happy birthday… now it’s my turn to say… you’re getting old, my G,” she texted with laughing emojis. I smiled a familiar smile reading it.

That night, I went through the usual motions, thinking about how quickly the years have passed and where I’m at in life. I thought about everything I had been through, the shit I survived, the mistakes I’ve made, and the things I’ve seen. I thought about the places I’ve been and the things I’ve achieved. And then I thought about the simple moments—the quiet ones I used to overlook: my mom’s laughter when I’d do something silly, my grandmother’s prayers for me as a child when I was scared, the grin on my dad’s face when he saw me dance, the friends who show up when I need them most. And after all that, I thought to myself, Damn. I’m still here. Is that not enough to celebrate?

Because maybe birthdays aren’t just a reminder of time passing or milestones reached. Maybe they’re also a chance to look around at all the things that are still here, even when so much has changed. And maybe it’s worth celebrating those things, no matter how small they seem.

Happy birthday.