this day never feels like anything

an introvert's battle with their own birthday feelz

Welcome to this tiny corner of the internet where an off-duty psychotherapist keeps the conversation going on how to make sense of this life thing we’re all doing. If you ever wondered what your therapist does off the clock—which, who among us hasn’t?—this is like that. Think of it as the adult equivalent of seeing your elementary school teacher at the grocery store picking out lemons. 🍋 I typically oscillate between long-form psychoeducation pieces and narrative essays—sometimes I smush them together. I also do a biweekly podcast with my husband, roundups and a segment of brisk thoughts on music, TV, and film.

One thing before we jump in, I show up very much as myself here. Myself first, and all my other labels are secondary. If a therapist speaking candidly feels like too much to your system, that is absolutely is OK and this may not be the best particular newsletter for you.

Am I the resident scrooge of birthdays?

It’s quite possible.

I feel perfectly capable of celebrating other’s birthdays. And I mean that word exactly. No stunning displays, just merely capable.¹

When it comes to my own, I feel like we stubble into incapable territory.

I’m a therapist. I’m big on feelings. This is the problem with my birthday.

It never feels like anything.

Maybe it has and I just can’t remember but that seems unlikely. I suspect I’d commit to memory the experience of waking up and feeling something.

Instead, without fail, year after year, I open my eyes slowly, disoriented, and realize with absolutely zero internal fanfare, it’s the day of my birth.