25, quietly.

No candles. No noise. No urgency to celebrate.

I turned 25. Quietly.

Not because life is bad. Not because I’m ungrateful. But because some years don’t ask to be celebrated; they ask to be acknowledged.

I came home with the same routine I’ve been repeating over and over again, day after day. Leaving at 7 a.m., returning close to 10 p.m. The city doesn’t slow down, and neither do I. The traffic, the responsibilities, the pressure, all of it folds into a blur where one day merges into the next without pause.

I didn’t even remember that my birthday was approaching. When the clock struck midnight, I didn’t notice. I had prayed my night prayers like I do every night, quietly, in dim light, not expecting anything, not waiting for wishes or surprises. All I wanted was to sleep, just a few hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.

It’s not that I’m depressed, or ungrateful. It’s just that life has shifted. My body is wired to this demanding rhythm, and my mind has adjusted to a life where time for myself no longer exists as it once did. I’ve grown out of the phase where spontaneous adventures, journaling, or even just a moment of stillness were luxuries I could afford.

I can’t go on random tours anymore. There’s a clinic, and patients waiting. There’s a job in the morning that expects presence, energy, performance. There’s a family that waits for me to come home with a smile, no matter how drained I feel inside. And in this relentless effort to show up for everyone, I’ve stopped showing up for myself.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing, something I used to do often. Pouring my thoughts was once a form of healing. But now, it’s been over a month since I last wrote something purely for me. The words have been bottled up, buried under exhaustion.

On my birthday night, I slept like a seal; heavy, unmoving, until my brother woke me up abruptly, like he always does. He’s the keeper of memories, the one who notices everything. He remembers every birthday, every date, every small moment the rest of us might forget. He buys random gifts just because. He drags us out for family outings when we’ve stopped looking for joy. And he didn’t forget this time either. Of course not. He took us all out for my birthday dinner, like it’s tradition. Because for him, it still matters.

And in that moment, sitting across from people I love but have barely had time to really see lately, I felt something stir. Not excitement. Not joy in the traditional sense. But something warmer. Like a reminder that I’m still human, still allowed to feel, still allowed to pause.

So yes, 25 came quietly. No big realizations, no emotional fireworks. Just a quiet dinner. A long day. A familiar voice waking me up. And a reminder that even when I forget about myself, some people never will.

And maybe that’s enough for now.