Next year, I’ll spend my birthday abroad.

Less pressure, less noise, less underwhelm.

Photo by Angèle Kamp on Unsplash

It was 11pm and I was more tired than usual. Most days I stay up until around 2am. But I almost fell asleep, forgetting I was about to turn 25 in less than an hour.

When I was younger, I used to get so excited about birthdays. So excited that I used to pace up and down for days before. So excited that I wouldn’t be able to sleep the night before, or several nights before.

There was seeing my extended family and getting presents, on the day when I’d get presents from my parents, and the activity I’d do or party I’d have with my friends.

Party bags, musical chairs and soft play areas. The smell of the ball pit. Running around and getting in trouble for hurting someone by accident or running.

Then birthdays became going to the cinema, or paintballing, or just going round to someone’s house and playing video games. Sleepovers became more common.

Birthdays were great then. They also meant one year closer to adulthood. One year until we could do anything we wanted, without anyone telling us what to do.

As each year passed, they seemed to get more stressful. Then birthdays became political.

Who to invite? Why wasn’t I invited?

Not receiving an invite physically hurt.

This marked a change. Birthdays no longer seemed like pure fun, there was stress. Planning was difficult. Just as invitations became political, so did the decision to attend.

The invitation no longer was a guarantee that the recipient would be there; you were making yourself vulnerable. Gambling even.

School ended on my 18 thbirthday. It was my favourite birthday. An exception to the rule. In our leaver’s assembly, everyone sang happy birthday to me. Afterwards, we all went to the pub, everyone. Even teachers. Anyone that went I could argue was coming to my birthday, and everyone that didn’t, didn’t want to go to the leaver’s drinks.

Everyone bought me drinks that evening. My drinking was still under control. I woke up the next day smiling.

The following years, my birthdays were smaller, but people came. Though the numbers decreased annually.

Organising my birthday was no longer political. People just faded away.

Then on my 22 ndbirthday, my dad passed away.

My half-sister called me on Instagram; she didn’t have my number saved. I thought she was joking, I hoped she was.

But she wasn’t.

My relationship with my father was complex, he was an amazing person. Our relationship was limited by circumstance, not by anyone’s shortcomings.

His death also left me with something unexpected: the ability to leave.

A couple of years later, the inheritance finally paid out.

A few months after his passing I met my girlfriend. My job paid me enough to go on holidays and now I had someone to go with.

So last year for my birthday we went to Austria and Hungary. I got really drunk and it was horrible and boring, but at least I didn’t have the pressure and the underwhelm of organising my birthday. It was all sorted.

How can I be lonely on my birthday if I am abroad?

A few weeks after we boarded a flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka.

Every day for the past year has been like a “birthday” for me. Like one I wanted in my childhood. I am living the adult life I dreamed of, travelling and doing exactly what I want. I have also been able to get on countless planes, trains and long-distance coaches- the thing my younger self would probably envy the most.

But it is now coming to an end. I wrote before about the ending of eras. I wrote imagining I was about to go home. Now I have one month left, the end is fast approaching. Everything I felt then I now feel stronger. Why does the end feel so nostalgic?

Nostalgia is a weird emotion, the epitome of bittersweet feeling.

I am one of the luckiest people alive, one of the luckiest people to live ever. I am well-travelled. I have stories. Some might worry I am going to be boring at dinner parties. Maybe. But I have seen and been through enough interesting situations now to be good at small talk. I have a lot of stories and a new found confidence.

I don’t drink as much anymore, I spend more time reading, and have practiced writing fiction and non-fiction. I feel more prepared, and that I have bettered myself. I have taught myself about history and researched deeper into other cultures, gaining an understanding I would never get in the UK.

I have been to countries people only see on the news. Bangladesh, Taiwan, Urumqi (the Uyghur region in China), Palestine and Israel, and India. I have been to all the tourist places in Southeast Asia.

Multiple people have told me, “I hope you are writing all this down!”

And I have been.

I am saying all this because this year my birthday was underwhelming. I wanted it to be underwhelming; my birthday isn’t cause for celebration anymore.

I didn’t drink. I got very few messages. I stayed in reading. Today I am not hungover. I am optimistic for the future, confident in who I am and what I need to do.

My birthday now also means the end of travelling, as well as meaning that I am now a quarter of a century old.

Next year for my birthday I’ll spend it abroad. No pressure. Maybe I’ll go somewhere my dad loved.

I know I won’t be worried who I’ll be spending it with or who to invite though.

Thanks for reading.

If you enjoyed this essay, you might also like “The Doormat Matters”

I publish three essays a week on current affairs, culture, politics and modern life. You can read more on **Substack**.

Originally published at https://jcalebs.substack.com.