There’s something quietly profound about birthdays. Each year, they arrive like clockwork — a personal new year marked not by fireworks (unless you were born on New Year’s or the Fourth of July) but by cake, candles, and (if we’re so blessed) the company of people who love us. As children, we counted down to our birthdays with giddy anticipation. They were magical milestones that meant presents, parties, and maybe a little more freedom.

But as we grow older, the excitement changes. Birthdays become less about what we’re getting and more about what we’re becoming.

Aging isn’t just about accumulating years — it’s about evolving. Each birthday is a small pause, a moment to look back at where we’ve been and ahead to where we’re going. It’s a mirror and a window, all at once. In that reflection, we might see growth, loss, resilience, change. We might remember the people who’ve walked beside us, those who’ve drifted away, and those we’ve had to say goodbye to.

For some, growing older feels like a quiet victory. We made it through another year — through the chaos, the quiet, the laughter, the lessons. For others, birthdays can stir up more complex emotions: regret, longing, the pressure of where we “should” be by now. That’s OK, too.

Getting older isn’t a straight line; it’s a mosaic of experiences, each year adding its own tile to the pattern.

With age often comes a gentle wisdom, the kind that doesn’t shout but nods quietly in the background. We begin to value different things—not just the big milestones, but the small, tender moments: a deep conversation, a slow morning, the sound of laughter in the kitchen. We start to realize that time isn’t something to fear, but something to honor and cherish.

Birthdays remind us of that time. They whisper, You’re still here. And that alone is worth celebrating.

So whether your birthday is a quiet day with a favorite drink and reflection, or a loud room full of friends and balloons, take a moment to acknowledge the journey. Light the candle, make the wish. Another year older means another year of stories—some still being written.

That is precisely what I plan to do when I turn 68 at the end of this month. And that, in itself, is a beautiful thing.