Still Here

Today is my birthday.
And every single year, without fail, I cry.

Not the soft, cute movie tears either. I mean the kind that sit in your chest all day. The kind that make you feel stupid for even hoping this year would feel different. The kind where you smile for everyone else while silently wondering why your own heart feels so heavy on the one day that’s supposed to celebrate your existence.

I’m a giver.
That’s who I am.

I remember details. I plan things. I go all out for the people I love. I make birthdays feel warm. Safe. Special. I want people to feel seen by me. Important. Chosen. Thought about. I give pieces of myself constantly because making people happy genuinely makes me happy.

And maybe the reason I pour so hard into others is because I know exactly what it feels like when nobody pours into you. I know what it feels like to sit with emptiness on days that are supposed to matter. I know the ache of wanting to feel thought about without having to beg for it. So I overlove. I overgive. I become the person I wish someone would be for me.

But when it comes to me?

Silence.

Minimal effort. Forgotten feelings. Empty space.

And maybe that sounds entitled to some people. Maybe someone reading this will think, “Birthdays aren’t a big deal.” But it’s not even about gifts or money or giant celebrations. It’s about feeling like your existence mattered enough for someone to pause and pour love into you the same way you pour it into everyone else.

A letter.
A thoughtful text.
Effort.
Intention.
Something.

Anything that says:
“I see you too.”

Because the truth is, some of us spend our entire lives making sure nobody else feels alone while quietly drowning ourselves.

This year hit harder.

Last month almost wiped me out mentally and emotionally. I’ve been carrying pain so heavy that some days I barely recognize myself anymore. And today just amplified everything I already try to suppress. Every disappointment. Every feeling of being emotionally abandoned. Every moment I questioned whether people only value what I can do for them instead of valuing me as a person.

I hate admitting this out loud, but sometimes I genuinely feel like I’d be appreciated more if I wasn’t here anymore.

People suddenly become angels after they die. Suddenly everyone posts paragraphs. Suddenly everyone remembers your sacrifices, your kindness, your heart. Suddenly you mattered deeply.

But what about while you’re alive?

What about the people silently begging to feel loved now?

And before anyone twists my words, no, I don’t want pity. I don’t want forced attention. I don’t want fake love. I just want to know what it feels like to receive the same depth of care I give so freely.

Because constantly being the strong one changes you.

It hardens you.

It makes you question if becoming cold is safer than continuing to love this deeply. Sometimes I really do feel myself turning into someone I don’t recognize — someone tired of giving, tired of showing up, tired of being the first person there for everyone else only to sit alone with my own pain when it’s my turn.

And maybe that sounds ugly.
Maybe it sounds bitter.

But it’s honest.

And honesty is the only thing I have left tonight.

So yes, today is my birthday.
And instead of candles and celebration, I’m sitting with the ache of feeling emotionally invisible.

Still here.
But hurting more than people realize.

Happy Birthday Elizabeth!