I think many can relate to that. It’s a day that unwillingly turns its spotlight on you. And maybe that’s why I’ve never really celebrated.

Already in early September, the unease begins to stir those restless feelings that always rise up before my day arrives. I find myself looking back at all my past birthdays. Each one a constant reminder that I was the child my classmates congratulated out of obligation, because “bullying is not allowed at school.”

I hate the attention I receive; it never feels truly real. And yet, I ache for someone to see me. Perhaps that’s why I write books, start podcasts, capture my life in images and film. Hoping someone will notice. And when they do, my conspiracy takes root - this belief that no attention I’ve ever been given was genuine, but offered out of duty.

With every day that edges closer to October, I’m reminded again of how lonely I feel each year. I don’t think my teacher meant any harm that time she said it, but I didn’t know I was being bullied until then. In front of the whole class, I stood exposed, while they were caught in the act. I had believed I was just the quiet girl no one had gotten to know yet. I thought my solitude was mine to own, not theirs to impose.

My birthday is tangled up with longing. It reminds me of everything I have missed, and everything I still hope for. The tears that always come are not weakness, but a kind of prayer. My silence is not pride, but a waiting for someone to understand. Maybe it will take me another twenty-five years to learn how to celebrate myself, without feeling like the loneliest person in the world.