I’m sorry you’re feeling this way on your birthday. Remember, your worth goes beyond appearances. I hope you find some joy today, and I’m here if you need to talk

Today is my birthday—a day the world tells me should be filled with joy, celebration, laughter, and the warm embrace of loved ones. But as the minutes tick by and the calendar page turns, I find myself in a place that feels all too familiar: solitude. I am in Ermon, the town where I’ve lived for most of my life, but today, it feels particularly distant, almost cold. There’s no party. No visitors. No messages lighting up my phone. Just the sound of silence and the hum of my thoughts echoing in the quiet room.

As much as I try to focus on the positive—the simple fact that I am alive, that I have made it through another year—I cannot help but feel the weight of absence. The absence of connection. The absence of attention. The absence of love, perhaps. I find myself asking: what is it about me that pushes people away or makes me invisible in the eyes of others?

And then, the brutal truth hits me with unforgiving clarity—many people have criticized me, some more subtly than others, for not fitting the conventional mold of beauty. It is a truth I have tried to ignore, to rise above, but on days like today, when I sit alone while the rest of the world seems to be embraced and celebrated, it’s impossible not to feel its sting.

We live in a world that praises appearances. Beauty—at least the kind that is defined by symmetry, smooth skin, and sculpted frames—is worshiped like a god. Our media feeds us a constant stream of perfect faces, edited photos, and bodies shaped by filters, procedures, or genetics. The message is clear: if you don’t look like this, you’re not worthy of admiration. You’re not worthy of love. And you most certainly don’t deserve to be seen.

Growing up under the shadow of these unattainable ideals, I spent years trying to transform myself. I tried to mold my image into something more palatable for others. I bought the makeup. I studied the tutorials. I spent too many hours in front of mirrors trying to correct what nature had given me. My hair had to fall just right, my skin had to glow just enough, my clothes had to hide just the right amount of what I considered imperfections. But no matter what I did, I always seemed to fall short. The compliments never came. The attention remained elusive. And the reflection in the mirror never truly satisfied me.

Now, here I am—on the day of my birth, when I am supposed to feel celebrated and loved—and yet, my phone remains silent. I scroll through my social media feed, watching others post cheerful selfies, their timelines filled with glittering birthday wishes from friends and family. There are cakes, balloons, happy emojis, and long messages expressing admiration and affection. But my notifications remain empty. It’s as if I don’t exist. As if I’ve been erased from the world’s consciousness.

It hurts. I won’t pretend that it doesn’t. The pain of being forgotten on a day like this cuts deeper than usual. I feel like a ghost, surrounded by people who are vibrant, beautiful, and seen. But just as tears threaten to rise, something inside me shifts—a quiet voice that has long been buried beneath self-doubt begins to rise to the surface. A whisper, gentle yet persistent. It tells me something I haven’t allowed myself to believe for a long time: that I am enough.

This voice grows louder with each passing minute, breaking through the negative thoughts that have long held me captive. It is the voice of self-love. It is the realization that perhaps the problem was never with how I looked, but with how I viewed myself through the distorted lens of societal standards.

I have spent too many birthdays, too many moments of my life, seeking external validation. I have measured my worth against unattainable ideals and the shallow opinions of those who never took the time to know me. But today—yes, today—I choose to reclaim my worth. I choose to rewrite the story I tell myself. I may not be the kind of beauty you see in magazines, but I am something more. I am real. I am honest. I am resilient.

I have lived through storms and come out stronger. I have loved deeply, even when it wasn’t returned. I have helped others in quiet, unseen ways. I have faced rejection and still kept my heart open. These are the things that make me beautiful—not a flawless face or an ideal figure, but a spirit that refuses to give up.

My value cannot be measured by birthday wishes or likes on a post. It is not dependent on who remembers me today or who doesn’t. It is in my kindness, in the way I listen when someone needs to talk, in the way I carry on even when it feels like the world has turned its back on me. It is in my tears, my laughter, my dreams, and my stubborn determination to keep going.

So, I light a single candle on a small cupcake I bought for myself. There is no party, no crowd singing “Happy Birthday,” but there is me. Just me. And this moment feels sacred in its own way. I close my eyes and make a wish—not for beauty, not for popularity, not even for love from others. I wish for strength. I wish for the continued ability to love myself, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

I decide to do something different today. I take a walk, letting the late afternoon sun kiss my skin. I smile at the sky, at the birds that don’t care how I look, at the breeze that doesn’t ask me to be anything other than myself. I treat myself to a warm drink, savoring every sip. And in those quiet moments, I feel peace begin to settle in.

Maybe I don’t need the world to celebrate me in order to feel valuable. Maybe the greatest celebration is learning to love myself, to forgive myself, and to accept who I am in every way. Today, I begin the journey of loving myself fiercely—not in spite of my so-called flaws, but because of everything I am.

Another year has passed, and with it comes a deeper understanding of what it means to be alive, to be human, to be me. I may not be everyone’s idea of beautiful, but I am my own kind of beautiful. And that is enough.

Happy birthday to me—not the version of me the world wants to see, but the real me. The me who is learning, growing, healing, and blooming in her own time. I may have started this day feeling unseen, but I am ending it with the kind of clarity that can only come from within.

And in the stillness of this moment, I smile—because I know I am worthy, just as I am.