Today you are one year closer to something— not death, not wisdom, not the person you planned to be by now, but something. Birthdays are strange holidays. We celebrate the one thing we had no part in— arriving. As if showing up was the accomplishment. (It was. Showing up is always the accomplishment.) Make a wish, they say, over fire on a cake— which, if you think about it, is a very strange ritual for a species that is afraid of both fire and wanting things. Here is what I wish for you: not happiness— that's too heavy to carry every day— but moments. The coffee that's perfect. The joke that lands. The morning you wake up and the first thought is not a worry. Happy birthday. You survived another year of being a person. That deserves a cake. That deserves a candle. That deserves someone to look you in the eye and say: I'm glad you were born.