I HATE THAT I WISH

I hate when a day is solely about me.

It should feel special, exciting even. A day to celebrate, to feel loved. But instead, it weighs on me like an expectation I can never meet. Like something I have to mold into perfection. And it hurts in a way I can’t explain.

People I love, they celebrate with me. They’re happy for me, or at least, I think they are. But I know, deep down, I will never fully have what I wish for. Not completely. And that’s the part that stings. That whatever love, attention, or affection is given, I have to just take it—no matter how little, no matter how incomplete. I have to accept it even when a part of me longs for more. Even when I feel like a terrible person for wanting more. For needing more.

And I hate that. I hate how it makes me feel greedy, ungrateful. Like I should just smile and say thank you, even when my heart feels hollow. Like I should be content with crumbs and never admit that I wish for something whole. Like I should never let the words escape my lips that maybe, just maybe, I want to be celebrated the way I see others being celebrated. Fully. Completely. Without having to read between the lines. Without having to gauge the mood, the effort, the sincerity.

But that’s not how it is, is it? I have always been the one observing, the one adjusting. Making sure others feel comfortable. Making sure others are happy. And on a day that’s supposed to be about me, I still catch myself doing the same.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want it.

Because the truth is, I would rather be alone than feel this ache. I would rather celebrate myself in silence than sit in a room full of people and still feel unseen. Because I know what it feels like when someone celebrates you out of obligation rather than love. I know the difference between presence and intention. Between being there and truly being there.

And maybe that makes me ungrateful. Maybe it makes me someone who complains about small things. Maybe it makes me selfish. But I don’t think it does. I think it just makes me human.

I know I am responsible for my own happiness. I know that. I know I should celebrate myself even when no one else does. I know I should be enough for me. But knowing doesn’t always make the ache disappear.

And I guess… I don’t know. I’m still fighting this battle in my mind. Still trying to figure out what’s right, what’s fair, what I should allow myself to feel.

All I know is—somewhere deep down, I just wish someone would celebrate me the way I have always longed to be celebrated.

And I hate that I wish for it at all.