Feature Article: On Turning 23

As I opened my eyes, I imagined my clothes laid out neatly on the chair beside me, the quiet ritual of a birthday morning already in place. I imagined my mother waking up, still holding my hand from the night before, as if nothing had changed, as if time had stayed where it once felt safe.

Instead, my eyes felt heavy.
A lack of sleep. A quiet nausea that grew the more I lifted my body from the bed.

The sun found its way through the curtains and rested softly on my face, and for a moment, I let myself believe what people would later tell me.  That I had been a good girl this year. That I had grown. That something had shifted in me in a way that was good and inspiring. 

I was faster than usual. Over the water, past the tall buildings, through streets that seemed to stretch a little wider this day. And then home. Home to silence.

A silence that came with feeling too old to celebrate yet another year and realizing how few it is that show up without receiving an invite.

A soft concern, almost pity, followed by encouragement. Go out. Do something. Be around people. As if being alone on your birthday is something that needs fixing.

But this year, I wanted the day to feel just like any other day.

I wanted to know what would happen if I didn’t fill the space. If I didn’t surround myself with noise or people. Would the sadness still come? If the sadness came, would it consume me like it used to?

It felt like the ultimate test of everything I had been working on this past year.

The messages became fewer, but heavier.
Less “happy birthday my best friend” from ten different people,
and more “this has been a transformative year — I’m proud of you.”

And what used to be a table filled with many became a quiet dinner with one. Someone who understands that presence can be enough. Someone who brings me flowers that all of the sudden becomes the best birthday gift ever received.

Walking home, I was happy. I caught myself thinking how lucky I was, moving through the city with a bouquet of red roses so big I had to concentrate for them not to fall, all while the night gently settled around me.

And just like that the still and lonely overpowered the happy, in a way that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar.

And that’s when I understood it. Just five minutes from being home it got to me.

The annual, quiet sadness of a daughter left behind.

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All day, I had moved carefully, almost convincingly, as if I had outgrown it. As if this “transformative year” had placed me somewhere beyond it.

But there is a certain arrogance in believing you are too evolved to feel what once shaped you. And I had believed it.

For a moment.

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So right before I crossed the street, I stopped.

And instead of pushing it away, I let it in.

The memory of him.
I imagined his hand in mine, where it had always belonged before crossing a street. I imagined his smile, his eyes, and his quiet humming.

It didn’t overwhelm me the way it once would have.
It didn’t take everything with it.

But it reminded me of a life once lived.

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At 23, I can’t say that I am healed.

There are still moments where it hurts, not constantly, not in the same way, but enough to remind me that this dunya is a loan.

But I can say this:

I am no longer where I once was.

Somewhere over the past decade, without even fully realizing it, I have managed to climb out of something that once felt endless. A depth I couldn’t see beyond at the time.

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If I could give myself a gift for my 23rd birthday,
it would be a conversation.

With the girl I was ten years ago.

To tell her that the silence won’t always feel this heavy.
That the pain won’t always feel this consuming.
That one day, she will walk through a birthday without falling apart.

Not because she forgot.

But because she learned how to carry it.

And that will be enough.