My 22nd birthday is approaching (cue Taylor Swift’s 22), and I’m trying to take some time to reflect on past birthdays.
I have always loved my birthday for so many reasons. It’s in October so Fall is finally setting in and the weather is crisp. When I was in high school, it was during the school year, so I would get to feel special that one day in class, hearing “happy birthday” even from people I did not consider my friends. I would be so excited all day long. My family––including aunts, uncles, cousins (the shebang)––would go out and join my immediate family at a restaurant.
I always felt untouchable. It was a day in which absolutely nothing could drag me down. Yet, my experience completely shifted when I got to college.
My 19th birthday was the first birthday that I spent without my parents. It was a tough day. My then-boyfriend had taken me out, which was nice. Yet, at the end of the day, while laying in bed, I wanted my parents.
The birthday blues exist. I’m super close with my parents (we call/facetime at least once a day). But there are little things they do that make it better. My mom, every hour on my birthday, sends one of those cheesy photos you get off google with a cute message. It never fails to put a smile on my face.
Every year that I’m away has gotten incrementally better. This year is the first year that I can genuinely say I’m excited. My friends and I have a meal planned that I’m so excited for. Last Thanksgiving, my roommate’s mom cooked a ham that tasted DIVINE. I asked her for the recipe and I made it myself for my family on Christmas Eve. I can’t wait to have the smell of the glazed ham filling our apartment.
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