From Confetti to Clarity: Turning 22
Now, why 22? Why not 18 or 21 or any other milestone year? The answer’s simple: I don’t remember most of my happy memories. I wish I did. But for some reason, the tough ones — the ones I’d rather forget — have taken up all the space. So since this birthday was still fresh, it made sense to pour it out now, before it fades into the background like the others.
Funny thing is, I wrote the original version of this blog exactly ten minutes before I turned a year older. Just raw thoughts and real feelings. I didn’t know back then I’d shape it into something like this, something I’d actually want to share. But here we are.
Turning 22. Was I excited? Not really. Nervous? Nope. To be honest, it just didn’t feel like anything. It was just... there. I look back and remember being a kid who used to plan birthdays months in advance. The countdowns, the outfit drama, the cakes, the anticipation — all of it. But now? It passes like any regular day. Quiet. Uncelebrated. Almost invisible. From wanting to feel special to not wanting to be noticed at all — maybe that’s growth, or maybe that’s just me retreating into comfort.
Life used to be about surprise parties and birthday calls. Now, it's about craving silence. Wanting space. Dreaming of one day where I don’t have to show up for anything or anyone — not even myself. I’ve transitioned from being a toddler wrapped in birthday balloons to an adult wrapped in responsibilities. From a schoolgirl obsessed with birthday cards and chocolates to a working woman who barely remembers what day it is unless someone tells her.
And while we’re being honest — I’ve lost people. Friends who were once close, relationships that I thought would last, connections that simply faded. But I’ve also gained something more important — clarity. A smaller circle, yes, but more genuine. The kind of people who check in not because they have to, but because they want to. Still, sometimes... the loneliness sneaks in. There’s a void. I don’t know what it is or where it came from, but it’s there. Quiet. Persistent. Heavy.
So the clock struck 12. I waited. For messages, for calls, for names I cared about to pop up on my screen. Some did. Some didn’t. And a part of me didn’t even want them to. What I really wanted was my parents. Their presence, their love, their warmth. I wanted to go back to the kind of birthday where my mom’s hug was the first gift I got, and my dad’s silly joke was the first laugh of the day. I missed home. I missed them. I missed me — the version of me that existed before the world got heavy.
But like everything in life, this feeling too shall pass. So I softly whispered to myself: “Happy Birthday, Girl.” No cake, no confetti. Just love. Just a reminder that I’m still here. I’m still growing. I’m still trying.
And to anyone reading this — especially if you’re far from home, far from comfort — I know how you feel. The truth is, we don’t get to celebrate every birthday with the same people anymore. Cities change. People change. Even we change. But the one thing that stays is your inner child. That little version of you who used to dance to birthday songs and light up over balloons? She’s still in there. Hidden under layers of responsibilities and survival, but alive. And maybe, like me, you’ve forgotten how to hear her. Maybe you buried her under to-do lists and deadlines. But she’s there, waiting for a moment to come back out and remind you that life isn’t just about surviving — it’s about feeling.
So let’s promise to find her again. Let’s give her that birthday party she dreamed of — not with presents or noise, but with peace. With kindness. With quiet joy. Let’s take a break from being strong and allow ourselves to just be.
Happy 22nd to me — and to the version of me who made it this far. You’re doing great, even if no one says it.
You're stronger than you think.
You’re enough. You always were.
And you’re worth celebrating. Always.
And if you’re reading this, I hope you take a moment to say the same to yourself.
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