Today Is My 35th Birthday and I’m Done Turning It Into a Report Card

On meaning, and when it hurts us.

Today is my 35th birthday. And let me tell you a little secret: I’ve been dreading it for weeks.

I couldn’t even say the words “I’m turning 35 soon” without tearing up.

Believe me, I’m perfectly aware of how silly this sounds. Aging is a privilege.
I personally know people who didn’t make it this far.

Some of you reading this might even roll your eyes at these words, or feel insulted.
“If 35 is depressing, what does that say about 39, 45, 50, 76?”

Turns out, those feelings had very little to do with the number itself.

---

It’s not the white hairs. I’ve made peace with the regular hairdresser appointments.

Nor the eye wrinkles. Not a big fan, but I’ll get used to them.

It’s the disappointment of realizing “I’m not where I thought I’d be by now.”

And more specifically: “I thought I’d be a mom by now”.
Two children was the plan.

As if life were a series of checkboxes, and some important ones had turned red.
“Missed deadline” accusatory red.

Infertility has a way of casting a shadow over birthdays, Christmases, New Years and other milestones.
It makes them all a little bit weirder. A little bit sadder.

Each one reminds you that you were expecting one more seat at the table.
And they all start to carry a faint taste of failure.

Perhaps even more so on birthdays. Especially for women.
Ticking biological clock and all that.

I’ve been trying to have my first baby since I was 31.
Doctors kept saying “You’re still young. Fertility doesn’t decline until after 35.”

And ever since, year after year, in the middle of the incredible baby boom taking place around me, I’ve been seeing myself getting dangerously closer to that scary island named “thirty-five”.

The one after which all fertility statistics start to decline and medicine seems to tell you: “It’s all downhill from here.”

---

Are you noticing the same things I am? All the stories hiding behind each of these thoughts?

Let me unpack them for you:

• A birthday is a performance review. It’s an audit. Pull up the PowerPoint. Open the Excel dashboard. Pass or fail.

• Life unfolds on a timeline where being “on time” equals being okay, and being “late” equals failure.
  Milestones, checkboxes, deadlines, red vs green indicator.

• My turning 35 means one thing only: failure at becoming a mom.

• Milestones are supposed to feel celebratory and abundant. If lack shows up, something has gone terribly wrong.

• Turning 35 is crossing a threshold. A door closing, in a way.
  It’ll mark a clear before and after in my life.

• “It’s all downhill from here.”

No doctor has ever actually said those words to me.
In fact, the opposite is true.
I’ve never been closer to my goal than I am right now, thanks to all the data we’ve gathered along the way.

And yet, that was the narrative I formed and nurtured for half a year.

---

I didn’t mean for this article to turn into a public journaling session. But if you’re going through infertility too, I hope it helps you feel a little less alone.

And if you’re not, but something else inside you hurts, consider it as my hand extended towards you. A friendly nudge to look a little closer at the stories you’re telling yourself and how they might be fueling that pain.

Maybe some things in life should remain meaningless. Neutral.

Like inanimate puppets.

The moment we slip our hand inside and start making them speak, they begin to dictate how we feel… and eventually, how we live.

So today, I’m healthy. I’m alive. I’m excited for cake and gifts and love.
And I choose to put the puppets down and let this number be just a number.

Happy birthday to me 🥳

---

If you’re going through something right now and wish you had a calm, supportive space to think it through, I do offer 1:1 sessions.
Fill out this short form and let’s talk.