I thought birthdays were supposed to be colorful, not just blue 

Tala Liwanag

No one warns you that a birthday can feel like a bruise. 

Growing up, I believed the day you were born was supposed to be loud, bright, and unforgettable.

A cake with your name piped in icing.

Colorful confetti drifting down, balloons bumping against the ceiling, and a room full of people with familiar voices singing your name—making you feel like the world is glad you’re in it.

I spent years waiting for colors like that. I wanted the vibrant reds, the golden glow of birthday candles, the sudden flash of cameras capturing people who showed up just for me.

Instead, my day slips in like a shadow. When the date arrives, it doesn’t burst into color; it bleeds into blue.

I think most about the wishes that never found a voice.

A candle is such a small thing, yet it gives a child a reason to close their eyes and dream out loud. 

Without a cake, where do those wishes go?

Mine were folded like scraps of paper and tucked away in the back of my mind, left to gather dust.

I grew up without ever asking the universe for anything, terrified of hearing no.

It was never the empty hands that hurt. It was the quiet grief of never learning how to belong at the center of my own life.

I never learned how to celebrate myself, never figured out how to feel important. 

Whenever the day comes around, I feel like a guest standing outside my own home, looking in through the window, wondering what it feels like to be warm inside. 

And right on time, the sadness finds me. It settles into the corners of my room, sits on my chest like a heavy blanket, and weighs down the hope I try to keep. It reminds me of everything childhood forgot to give.

Tonight, turning twenty, I finally let go of the colors I was never given. I will not force a smile for a room that isn’t there, and I will not apologize for the ache that lingers.

The world told me birthdays were supposed to be full of color, but blue has been my most constant companion. It taught me how to be enough on my own. It taught me that it’s okay to feel sad on days you’re told to be happy. It taught me that worth is not measured in party hats, frosted cakes, or wrapped gifts—but in the steady courage to exist, even when the room stays quiet.

I don’t have a cake to wish upon tonight.

Instead, I unfold the dreams I hid away for twenty years, place them gently on the table, and make one simple promise to myself:

I will learn to stay, even in the quiet. I will be my own warmth, even in shades of blue.