I love birthdays.

Mine and everyone else’s. For me, celebrating a birthday is honoring the day that a person came to be, a whole human being that came into existence from seemingly nowhere, and you just can’t beat that.

But when I turned 30, I briefly considered no longer commemorating my birthday because turning 30 meant I was getting older and getting much closer to having to face my own mortality. I hated the thought of dying, as evidenced by the huge dose of health anxiety, previously known as hypochondria, I felt on a regular basis since my late 20s, so anything that reminded me I was getting closer to death had to go. Little did I know that death was closer to knocking at my door than I ever realized.