Happy Birthday to Me

In her early 40s, Jesse Sposato finally gets comfortable celebrating her turns around the sun.

Jesse Sposato with her partner and their daughter on her actual birthday, a few days after the celebration mentioned in this essay.

I’ve always been disappointed on my birthday — I’m one of those people. I see that eye roll, I get it. I’m lucky to be alive, to be able to celebrate my birthday at all. And yet, despite knowing this, for years, I held these impossibly high expectations for this momentous life occasion, that all my friends from every corner of my life would show up at whatever rooftop party, backyard drinks, or dinner I had planned, and together, we would have the perfect evening. For many, existential birthday dread is about a fear of aging, but that was never what bothered me about my birthday — I always felt ready for my new age by the time I got to it. For me, it was something else. 

Despite wanting the perfect celebration, throwing a party for myself always had a bit of an icky feeling, like it was too much to be the center of attention, or to ask people to go out of their way just for me. (I think the thing being left unsaid here is that I felt like I didn’t deserve it, but that might be too much to unpack in one little essay. 🙃) Because of this, subconsciously, I could never put too much preparation into my birthday plans, since doing so could result in great disappointment if it failed. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it was as if, in my mind, my birthday party attendance list was evidence of which friends truly cared about me, and what kind of night I had was a reflection of how well my life was going. It’s not rational, I know. It is ridiculous to think that our friends’ love for us could possibly be measured by whether they’re free this one day each year — and yet, I’m guessing I’m not alone in feeling this way.

The irony? My birthdays were usually pretty fun, filled with several and sometimes even many good friends, drinks, cards, well wishes, sweet things to stick candles in — but if my crush didn’t come home with me (in my earlier years) or that one friend who I’d just barely recently reconnected with couldn’t make it, then it would feel subpar, and I would zero in on only that. I don’t know where this unrealistic wish for a perfect birthday came from. Was it leftover from the predictable simplicity and easy fun of childhood birthday parties when the whole class was invited and someone else made all the arrangements? Or did it come from birthday celebrations I read about in People magazine at the supermarket checkout line? Or, more realistically, that “you-always-have-to-be-killing-it” attitude New Yorkers seem to toss around like it’s nothing, to our own detriment? 

As we got into our late 30s and friends started spreading out and entering different life stages, birthday celebrations started to, understandably, become a bit more low-key. Rather than take to heart the “rejection” of a friend who might have tickets to a play the night of my birthday gathering, or be unable to make the trek to the bar I chose, I started cutting celebrations out before I could feel the loneliness of the invitation declines roll in. 

It seemed easier to stop making big plans, to stop expecting too much, to embrace my inner Don Draper. Remember the episode where he scolds Peggy for still giving a shit about her birthday at 26? His quote, to be exact: “By the way, you are 20-something years old. It’s time to get over birthdays.” And so, I would go to dinner with my partner and call it a night, maybe make plans to go away for the weekend, partially because it’s fun to go away to celebrate your birthday, naturally, but also partly to avoid the disappointment I thought inevitably came with a birthday. 

I don’t know where this unrealistic wish for a perfect birthday came from. Was it leftover from the predictable simplicity and easy fun of childhood birthday parties when the whole class was invited and someone else made all the arrangements? Or did it come from birthday celebrations I read about in People magazine at the supermarket checkout line? Or, more realistically, that “you-always-have-to-be-killing-it” attitude New Yorkers seem to toss around like it’s nothing, to our own detriment? 

Last September, as I turned the wise age of 43, that all changed. (You knew this was coming, or what kind of an ungrateful brat would I be?!) So, how did I do it? You know when someone dies and you spend days reading tributes about them? I always get sucked into that stuff even when I’m not a fan or a friend, because I’m kind of emo and it’s so moving to read the kind, loving words people gush about their friends — but also so deeply sad that those same people won’t ever get to hear how they were so lovingly praised. After going down one of these grief rabbit holes over I don’t even remember whom recently, I started to think, “If only there were some way to celebrate a person by telling them what was so special about them and why you were glad to be in their life way before death was even a consideration …” Birthdays, of course, weddings too! How had I not realized this sooner? 

Having that brilliant epiphany dovetailed with listening to Busy Philipps speak so openly and heartbreakingly on her podcast about the loss of her best friend Kate at the young age of 44, I felt the sudden urge to seize the moment and celebrate while I could. It just so happened that my daughter had a day off from school around my birthday and her grandparents would be taking her for a sleepover to help out with childcare, which meant… I had a night off. 

I knew a friend was in town for the long weekend, so I figured, fuck it, I would see if she or anyone else was around to get a drink, because didn’t it just sound nice to have a glass of wine with some friends to celebrate?!  Whether it was one friend or several didn’t really matter because not only was I a new, enlightened me, but did I mention I had a rare child-free night. 

When I reached out to friends to see if anyone was around (last minute, of course — though I should say, part of that, too, is that I’m generally pretty indecisive, so not a great planner), it was one friend’s response that struck a chord. After giving her an out, “No pressure at all, I know it’s a trek for you,” — which it was and which I meant — she responded with an enthusiastic, “Of course I’ll be there!” just minutes later. Really, of course? I thought to myself. Perhaps my hasty approach to birthdays these last couple of years had been too extreme in the other direction. I had gone from having unrealistic expectations to forgetting that it was OK to let friends show up for me on my birthday, like I did for theirs all the time. 

When that same friend wrote in her card to me that birthdays are “the chance to reflect on the lives we’re creating for ourselves,” it suddenly felt clear that I had missed the point all along. Birthdays should be a chance to celebrate — ourselves, our lives, our accomplishments — and be celebrated in whatever way we can, with whoever is able. They certainly shouldn’t be stressful or high stakes or imbued with some unnecessary grandiose meaning.

Not everyone was able to make it, of course — some people were away, others busy with family commitments. But it was such a lovely time — we sat outside at one of my favorite restaurants on one of those cusp-season nights that’s just warm enough for a lighter coat but barely, shared a variety of small plates, from thinly sliced crudo to flourless chocolate cake and drank glasses of crisp organic wine without having to worry about driving home. It was a welcome respite from my everyday obligations and a nice excuse to indeed feel proud of the life I’ve created for myself and grateful for the friends and family I get to share it with all year round, whether they were at the dinner table that night or not.