Another Year, Another Birthday: A Reflection on Life, Blessings, and Loneliness

Yesterday was my birthday. I had planned a wonderful weekend full of joy, laughter, and togetherness. My cousin, who lives two hours away, graciously invited us to her home for a weekend celebration. I rented a van, and my guests were set—my brother, my mother, my daughter, my friend, and her two kids. I imagined games, a barbecue, and breakfasts cooked by me. We would go to church, fellowship together, and have even more fun. It was supposed to be a weekend of joy, celebration, and gratitude for another year of life.

But as life often does, it threw in a series of unexpected twists.

A serene black female figure sits alone at a table in a warmly lit restaurant, surrounded by empty chairs. Outside the window, a soft sunset glows, casting a golden hue. On the table, a wrapped gift is half-opened, and a single candle flickers, symbolizing quiet reflection and resilience.

It began when I was unable to use my debit card. We had to switch from the van we had originally reserved to a smaller vehicle. Then, I realized I was $50 short, and my mother ended up covering the van rental. To make things more complicated, one of my friend's children fell ill, so she and her family couldn’t come. And then, my cousin, who had forgotten we were coming, said we couldn’t visit on the 14th. My grand plan was unraveling before my eyes. I was disappointed but decided to make the best of it.

We returned the van the next morning—my birthday, the 15th—and switched to driving my SUV. My mother invited someone else to drive so that neither she nor I had to. The reason for the trip? The 16th anniversary of the church where my cousin lives.

We spent four hours in church that day. Although it wasn’t the weekend I had planned, being in God’s presence felt grounding. Afterward, we went out to eat with some of my mother’s friends. Since my friend and her kids couldn’t make it, I treated five people to dinner—myself, my brother, my mother, my daughter, and our driver—at Black Angus Steakhouse.

Here’s where things got interesting. Our waiter, who was white, didn’t seem to care much about our party. My mother complained to his boss, and thankfully, the manager took some things off the bill. Even so, I left a 30% tip. Not because I had to, but because I believe in treating people with kindness, even if they don’t always reciprocate. That’s how I would want to be treated. Later, I learned from one of the cooks that tips weren’t shared among all the staff. So, I asked the manager to give a $50 tip to the Black waitress who had been working nearby, even though she wasn’t our server. I wanted her to know she was seen, valued, and appreciated. I signed the tip on behalf of Please Don’t Die Black Men (PDDBM) and wrote a little note on the receipt to encourage her.

She later came up to thank me, and although I wished I could have given more, it felt good to be able to bless her in that way. Promoting equity, even in small gestures, means a lot to me, and I was grateful that I could be a part of her day in a positive way.

When we finished dinner, I reflected on the day. My daughter was the only one who gave me gifts, and as I opened them at the table, I felt love and joy from her. I was blessed, truly blessed, but a sadness lingered. I couldn’t shake the feeling of loneliness. My cousin, someone who used to be close to me, hadn’t even said happy birthday. Birthdays are important to me—they symbolize another year that I’ve survived, another year that I’m still here, alive. I believe they should be celebrated because life itself is a gift.

The reality hit hard: the people I expected to care, didn’t. The number of well-wishers was fewer than I had hoped. I kept thinking about the friends I don’t have. And then there was the money—money I wished I hadn’t spent on dinner, but it happened because our plans had changed so drastically.

Through all of this, I was reminded of something powerful: Fellowship matters. Humans are social beings. We are wired to connect, to be celebrated, and to feel seen. Without it, life can feel empty, and that emptiness weighed heavily on my heart. I love myself, but we all need people to remind us that we exist, that we matter.

Even babies, when deprived of human touch, wither and die despite having their basic needs met. It’s the same for adults. We all want someone to know that we are here, that our life has meaning.

So, this blog post is for you—the person who may be feeling as I did, or still do. Maybe you’ve had a birthday come and go, and no one seemed to notice. Maybe you feel invisible, like you’re moving through life without anyone caring that you’re alive. I want you to know that I care. I may not know you personally, but I love you. You are important to this world, and your life has value.

You are seen. You are loved. You are important.

We are all connected, more than we realize. Each of us has meaning and purpose, even if right now, it may not feel like it. I want to encourage you to keep going. Keep living. Things will get better, even if it doesn’t seem like they will right now. I care that you’re alive, and I’m happy you’re here.

Happy Birthday!!!

You made it. You’re exactly where you need to be, right now. Take this moment, reflect on it, and ask yourself: What am I supposed to learn here? Once you understand it, you’ll move forward into the next moment of your life, stronger and more resilient.

And as you move forward, I encourage you to journal your thoughts. Write down how you’re feeling, so you can see how far you’ve come. Everyone has a story. Make sure you tell yours.

You’re here for a reason. Don’t forget that.