Does the need for celebration outweigh the emotional burden?

It’s my birthday, and I’ll cry if I want to (even on Lexapro and Wellbutrin).

I’m 31 today. I’ve always seen birthdays as joyous occasions, reasons to celebrate, reminders to be grateful — at least, when they belong to other people. I think it’s important to make your people feel cherished on their day, to let them know they are loved and truly seen. And I do know I am loved. I know I have people who care about me. I know I’m not alone.

I even have this little ritual at birthday dinners: before dessert or right at the start, I always suggest we go around the table and share what we wish for the birthday person in the coming year. I’m usually bawling at the end.

But despite knowing I’m not alone, every year I feel a little bit lonelier. And I think part of that loneliness comes from not having “a person” —not necessarily in the romantic fairytale sense, but in the deeply human sense of having someone who is yours and for whom you are theirs. Someone who is the default call, the built‑in witness, the person who sees the mundane and the monumental. I have community, I have friends, I have family, I have Penny — but I don’t have that person. And sometimes the absence of that feels louder on days like this.

My birthday feels less like a celebration and more like a private audit — an annual inspection after surviving metaphorical floods, wildfires, earthquakes, and every other possible natural disaster. Honestly, does anyone ever really hold up to this impossible performance review?

If the 15-year-old Elisha had her way, I would own a house, be happily married, and have a couple of children by now. I don’t think my life would look anything like what it does now. I know that imaginary timeline was not sacred scripture and life rarely ever follows a blueprint, but if that was ever the plan, why does it feel like I veered so far off course?

At this point of my life, I feel less certain about what I want my life to look like. I think, at least a part of me, will always want the life that 15-year-old girl dreamed of, but I also don’t want my heart to completely shatter if that life never unfolds for me.

I digress. To conclude: at age 31, I’m still full of existential dread, longing for community, carrying a constant sense of yearning, and feeling no older (or wiser) than I did at 15-years-old. For now, I guess I’ll embrace the in-between. Life isn’t what I imagined it to be, but it could just be even better.