Why I Don’t Like Celebrating my Birthday
Note: I wrote this while listening to BTS’ new album: Proof. 🙂
I’ve had some amazing birthday parties and memories. Bobbing for grapes. The Liberty Science Center. Tamagotchi party favors. Turning 21 with my cousins in NYC. A bonfire in Rwanda. Dancing in Ecuador. Midnight delight cake traditions.
As I’ve reflected on what my birthday means to me, and I’ve thought about how I want to spend my birthday, I’ve noticed feelings of sadness and heaviness.
First, I don’t like being the center of attention, so birthdays can be tough, because it’s usually all about you. I feel so awkward and freeze in a smile when people sing happy birthday to me — what the heck are you supposed to do?!
I am working on reframing my birthday as a joyous reason to bring people together (like the 2019 non-birthday birthday brunch in Jersey). It feels less intense and me-focused. I like the idea of using my birthday as a reason to laugh. I enjoy the serendipity and joy of spending time with others.
Second, I have always felt that this day wasn’t a 100% celebratory occasion because my story begins with loss and abandonment. When I was a kid, the first few months of my life were succinctly summarized in soft words like: “You were born, dropped off, and then adopted.”
Dropped off. Sigh. Dropped off like I was being “dropped off” at daycare?? How about: Left. Orphaned. Abandoned??
Do any of these words feel like the beginning of a story about unadulterated joy and celebration?
For me, not really.
In 2016, after I visited my orphanage in China, I wrote: “I feel much more comfortable celebrating the accomplishment of someone successfully giving birth to a healthy baby girl than celebrating the day of my birth.” I found peace with this sentiment. Recently, though, my curiosity has grown. Who gave birth to me? Who else was there? Where was I born? Who left me? Why?
I am curious. I am sad. I am deeply unsatisfied. I have so many questions.
For many, a birthday is a known fact. For me, it wasn’t necessarily a guarantee. I’m considered ‘lucky’ because my orphanage didn’t have to guess my birthdate; I was found with a piece of paper that said so. Even then, I wonder about its accuracy. For many people, especially during the One Child Policy, it was important to remain anonymous and leave babies in a manner that could not be traced back to the birth family for fear of punishment. So, it just makes me wonder… and I don’t really have a way to verify.
I’ve heard people say the past is in the past. Focus on the future. It’s just a date. But this confuses me. Why do you hold on so tightly to your own birth date?
I am trying to be gentle with myself for even having to wonder.
I think adoptions, especially ones that seem to ‘work out,’ can be easily romanticized. After reading Jan Beatty’s American Bastard, I realize that it’s STILL important to center the adoptee and their experience. It’s important to acknowledge the loss that had to occur in order for this ‘forever family’ or ‘chosen family’ narrative to take place.
So, in addition to embracing a more celebratory birthday spirit, I am also making space for mourning and grace. My birthday has grown into a more blunt reminder of my abandonment and eventual adoption. This year, my birthday tastes bittersweet. My body tingles. Shakes. I am crying. I mourn the unknown.
In general, as my age increases, I find that my heart is getting more tender. My birthday reminds me of the lessons I’ve been noticing this year:
- We have the capacity to be deeply complex.
- Humans, including myself, can be really confusing… But, also quite simple.
- It can be exhausting to hold space for nuance for extended periods of time.
- When I let the sand settle, I gain clarity. I know what the next step is.
- Our experiences and emotions are valid (and may differ from another person’s experience).
Ah, to be human.
I am glad that I have been able to speak with A about this. I am not alone. There is no rush. There is no path (eeek)! We are all navigating this in our own time and in our own way.