Why Birthdays Have Never Been Simple For Me

As I write this on Sunday afternoon, I've been reflecting on my birthday tomorrow (the day I’ve posted this).

I'll be 44 years old.

I shouldn't feel old but I do when I'm fumbling through conversations with my teens, I'm the oldest person at the table, I notice how white I've become, how my smile ages my face, how thin my hair is getting, or when I stop and work out how old I actually am.

Other times, it doesn’t. I’m just me. 

Being adopted, birthdays have never been straightforward for me.

For most people, a birthday is a celebration. For some adopted people, it's more complicated. It's the anniversary of your birth, but also a reminder of separation, loss, and questions that never go away. Even though I was happily adopted, birthdays always felt like that .

I wasn't abandoned immediately. My biological remained around for four months before leaving in search for her latest male interest. I then moved through three different homes before being adopted shortly before my fourth birthday.

Looking back, the foundations of safety and security were disrupted several times during some very significant years of development.

As someone who traced their biological family and found more mess than answers, there’s still an emotional tension carried within birthdays.

Anyone who's read this blog knows how much I adored my mum. She gave me everything she possibly could. I'll always be a mummy's boy. Yet birthdays sometimes bring a strange sense of guilt, as though acknowledging the losses connected to adoption somehow takes something away from what she gave me.

It doesn't, of course. Just because my mind considers biological things doesn’t mean I wanted that life instead of the one I had. Emotions aren’t always logical.

I only have flashes, faces, and feelings of those years. I often wonder whether that's part of why birthdays have always felt difficult. Something about the date stir things up, even when I don't consciously expect it to.

Perhaps the simplest way to describe it is this: birthdays have always carried baggage.

My mum understood that better than most. She never pushed me into huge parties. Instead, she'd invite a few close friends, keep things manageable, and make sure I felt comfortable.

She got it right. The videos of at least one shows how overwhelmed I was.

Over the years, other things happened. Difficult situations at home, school, among friends, and in life. Birthdays seemed to become the place where difficult things happened.

If you know Hannah, you’ll know she goes all in with birthdays.

When Midge turned sixteen, there was music, excitement, and enough enthusiasm to let the entire world know it was her birthday.

Hannah has spent years trying to help me experience birthdays differently. There have been incredible cakes, thoughtful surprises, and genuine effort. She has really tried and I’ve had some good birthdays, but good experiences don't automatically erase old ones.

This year we decided to do something different.

At first, Hannah suggested inviting friends for a meal. The more we thought about it, the more we realised not all my friends know each other, and not everyone enjoys being dropped into a room full of strangers.

So we went smaller.

Last night (Saturday), our two friends came over for dinner. We ate, laughed, and enjoyed being together. It was a lovely evening and meant a lot to me. It didn’t need to be big. Being with them was enough.

I've got another meal planned with a couple from church this week.

That’s it. Simple and manageable.

The older I get, the more I think that's probably what I need.

Big parties have always overwhelmed me. I worry whether everyone is comfortable, getting on, or feeling left out. Just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’ll all get on.

My thirtieth birthday proved that.

Mum died three months earlier, yet everyone encouraged me to have a large celebration. I did it anyway. It was a terrible time in my life, but everyone was like “Mum wouldn’t want you upset. Unfortunately, everything I worried about happened.

What I remember most is feeling lonely in a room full of people. There were lots of friends, but few close ones. A problem I've always had.

Birthdays changed when Mum and Dad died.

I know I'm not alone in that.

When the people who raised, loved, and anchored your childhood are no longer here, birthdays become a reminder of their absence as much as your age. A part of you wants them there, and no amount of logic changes that, but you carry on because you have to.

All this has been spinning around my head this week.

I'm sure it will be lovely. I'll enjoy it and be grateful for another year. I won’t be sitting in a wallowing mess. That isn’t me. This post is just me taking a moment to voice something underneath. It’s not a cry for help. It just voices the strange mixture of gratitude, grief, love, loss, and reflective thoughts that birthdays still bring with them.