Why I Hate My Birthday

I hate my birthday. Not in the shallow “I’m getting old” way, but in the hollow way where the day feels like it should be full, but it isn’t.

My brother and I were twins. For as long as I can remember, this day was ours. We blew out candles together. We fought over who got which present. We shared the same cake, the same spotlight, the same laugh when people sang to us. Even when we got older and life pulled us into different directions, I still clung to this day. At first, I hoped we’d find time to be together. Later, I just hoped he’d pick up the phone. Eventually, it became a day where I prayed he would return my call. And then one year he didn’t. He never did again.

That’s what makes this day so heavy. It marks another year of me here, and another year of him gone. It feels like a reminder of the gap that nothing on earth can fill.

And yet, there are memories that I carry like treasures. The happiest birthday I remember was a pirate-themed one when we were kids. My cousin John rowed us around in a boat, and my parents had a rice crispy cake shaped like a pirate ship. I don’t know why that one sticks. Maybe because it’s the earliest one I can still see his face with that goofy grin, looking at me, saying, “happy birthday.” That memory has stayed longer than the candles, the gifts, the noise. It’s etched into me.

When people wish me a happy birthday now, I don’t want them to stop. I appreciate it. But know that the only thing that feels truly “happy” about this day for me is the hope that my brother is happiest now, safe in the arms of Jesus. That’s the hope I cling to, that his story didn’t end, that he’s more alive than I can imagine.

So yeah, I hate my birthday. But hating it doesn’t mean I hate life. It means I miss him. It means I still love him. And it means I’m holding on, year after year, to the promise that one day we’ll celebrate again without distance, without loss, without the silence of a phone that never rings.