Yesterday was my birthday.
Just a few weeks ago, as I was rummaging through old photos—real prints, not pixels on my phone—I happened upon a picture of my younger self at one of my birthday parties. I was standing in front of a layer cake baked by my mother, surrounded by my brothers and sisters, who appeared eager for me to blow out the candles and get on with the party so they could eat cake and ice cream. Just behind me stands my grandmother who is smiling broadly, happy to participate in a grandchild’s birthday celebration. My mother must have taken the photo, and off camera and to the side, I’m sure there was a small stack of presents that my sibs would “help” me open.
Needless to say, none of that happened yesterday.
That’s not to say my most recent birthday was bad in comparison. There were phone calls from family throughout the day, gifts from loved ones, friends and neighbors, and many, many “virtual” birthday wishes from people in town and as far away as Sicily on social media. All that while I stayed cuddled by the fire in my sweat pants.
But seeing an old photo of the way birthdays were celebrated in the past not only brought on a wave of nostalgia, it also made me reflect upon the way we regard this annual event at different stages of our lives. As a child, being a year older was a big deal. Turning five meant you were going to kindergarten, at seven you would make your First Communion. Somewhere around age 10 you were big enough to ride the Comet roller coaster. At age 13, you would wear your first pantyhose.
Your teenage years were celebrated with friends, not family, if you could manage it. And during the college years (I hate to admit), I was feted at the local bars. Then there was marriage and children and loving, handmade cards and simple parties at home, until they were grown and your birthdays, if they remembered, were celebrated with a quick phone call. And then it was left to my sweet husband to—year after year—come up with different ways to make the day special.
Now in my dotage, being a year older is still a big deal, but not necessarily in a good way. Another year added to the now long ledger means more aches, pains, trips to the doctor, new meds, new orthotics, more grey hairs and a few new wrinkles.
But believe it or not, I still love my birthdays and I revel in the day with enthusiasm. Why? Because I can! I can still jump out of bed in the morning, take a walk through the park with my dog, plant flowers, go to exercise class, take trips abroad. I’m still writing, reading, corresponding, and learning. I spend quality time with my dog—and sometimes even my husband 😊—and I take time to reflect on all I have going for me now, as well as all the things I still plan on doing.
Sure, there are no more parties where I’m surrounded by family. No handmade cards or child-wrapped gifts, and definitely no cake with a candle for each year (we’d need a pail of water nearby!). But, every year I receive a gift more precious than any other—the gift of life—and I plan to live it with gusto.
How do you celebrate your birthdays? I’d love to hear from you, in the comment section below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows vegetables, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow, her first novel, was published in 2023, and Black Ice, Book Two in the Buffalo trilogy, was published in July 2026. Stay tuned for updates on Book Three!