Birthday Week
On turning thirty-nine and letting the day be small
My first post on here back in October hinted at my birthday being around the corner. The corner, well, we’re around it. I turn 39 on Thursday. December 4th. A Sagittarius, if you’re into astrology, or that newer zodiac sign everyone likes to argue about.
It’s my birthday week. Back in my 20s it was a birthday month. Now it’s more of a soft acknowledgement. A few days circled mentally, nothing too loud.
I’ve found myself feeling kind of bummed about my birthday for a number of years. I’ve spent plenty of time in therapy unpacking the why. I know the why. I know exactly what moment flipped the switch from excited about another year to are you absolutely fucking kidding me.
Sharing the reason feels too big. Saying it here, where words live and breathe and stay, feels like an endeavour meant for someone braver than me. Or maybe just someone further along.
Being a December baby is strange. You’re older than most kids because of classroom cutoffs. Christmas rules everything. School breaks, exams, end-of-year exhaustion. Teachers are tired. Parents are stretched thin.
I used to be madly jealous of my younger sister born in August, with her summer pool parties in our backyard. Wet hair, sunscreen, the sound of ice in plastic cups. Everything felt open and expansive. My little brother is a November baby and it never seemed to faze him, being born in rain and time changes, the slow tilt toward winter.
Somewhere along the way, I came to love December.
Mother Nature has a habit of gifting me big, fat snowstorms on my birthday. When I was younger, I hated it. Snowstorms meant cancelled plans and friends already pulled into holiday chaos. It always felt like my birthday had to compete for space.
But now, I’ve grown attached to it.
There’s something about waking up on my birthday to that deep, heavy quiet. The city slows itself without being asked. The snow makes everything feel smaller, more contained, more private. It lets the day be less about celebration and more about presence.
The storm gives me permission to make the day mine. To choose slowness. To take myself to dinner, sit by myself with a glass of something warm, order exactly what I want. To walk home through softened streets where footsteps disappear as quickly as they’re made. There’s a kind of joy in that. Not loud joy, not performative joy. A steadier kind. The kind that asks nothing of me.
It’s one of the few things about having a December birthday that feels like a gift intended specifically for me.
This year, though. Thirty-nine. When did that happen? How did that happen? It feels both sudden and deeply familiar, like waking up and realizing you’ve been in this body far longer than you thought.
I never really understood people who hated their birthdays. I grew up in a family where birthdays were sacred. You were the centre of attention simply because you existed. Cake, candles, being sung to loudly and slightly off-key. Because of that, I tried to make the people I loved feel the same way. Friends. Lovers. Coworkers. Small gestures that said, I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad the world made room for you.
I had therapy this morning. I was feeling morose. Hovering close to that darker place, the one that doesn’t really bode well if I linger too long. The place where reflection tips into rumination.
“How can we reframe this?” she asked.
“What if this is discomfort with change? Grief for a life you thought you’d have? The pain of shedding expectations?”
She reminded me that there’s actually a lot to be grateful for. So we talked about what I’m thankful for heading into 39.
Not in a checklist or gratitude-journal way. More like taking inventory when the room finally grows quiet.
I’m grateful for a body that still carries me even when it resists. For work that feels like it came from my hands, my taste, my values. For knowing now the difference between solitude and loneliness. For mornings that don’t feel rushed. For a table I get to gather people around. For learning how to ask for what I need, and how to sit with not getting it.
I’m grateful that I’m still here. Still curious. Still softer in places I once armored. Still willing to be changed by what hasn’t happened yet.
Thirty-nine feels uncomfortable. It feels real. It feels like standing in the middle of the room instead of waiting near the door, keys already in hand.
Maybe this year isn’t about celebrating or mourning.
Maybe it’s about staying long enough to feel the quiet.
That said, if you’re an IRL friend, I will happily accept coffee, flowers, cake, or a well-timed phone call. Guaranteed to make this gal smile.