Birthdays, Birth Trauma, and the Emotions We Don’t See Coming

Let’s talk about… my birthday. Actually, no. That doesn’t feel quite right. Let’s talk about September. Let’s talk about how our bodies hold on to experiences and emotions we never fully process. How they speak to us in ways we can’t always name. Even when we think we’re self-aware, our bodies have this way of revealing the trauma and stuck energy we didn’t even know was hiding there.

For as long as I can remember, my birthday has come with stress. Honestly, so have most holidays. I grew up as an only child with limited freedom. I was not allowed to wander the neighborhood or hang out with friends much. So when birthdays or Christmas rolled around, it was just me in the house absorbing all the tension, the arguments, the chaos from morning to the time that the last door slammed shut.

At the time, I thought it was normal. But as I got older and started experiencing calm, joyful holidays with my own family, with meals shared, gifts passed around, family members ACTUALLY wanting to spend time together, and laughter filling the space, I realized how much pressure and anxiety had shaped my idea of celebration.

And birthdays? Mine started to feel like a lot. Too much attention, too much anticipation, and somehow too much disappointment. The older I get, the less I want any of it. I think it is because growing up, those big days always felt like they were for everyone else. Even on my birthday, the plans and energy seemed to reflect what other people wanted, while I silently longed for peace and quiet. I became a people-pleaser early on, trying to keep things calm at home, and that stuck with me. Someone else wants a high-end, big-deal celebration for my birthday? I’ll go with it because if I don’t? That person will be hurt, take it personally, and ruin the whole day anyway. A choice between two not-so-fun options.

But now my birthday holds another layer. My son Hawthorne was born on September 9, two days after mine. His birthday is also the anniversary of his birth (obviously). And it was not the birth I had planned.

I did not necessarily expect him to be born on my birthday, but after a miscarriage, I saw the chance for a rainbow baby DUE on my birthday and thought what a beautiful story that would be. He began labor on September 5. For three days, we labored at home unmedicated, with my dog curled up next to me, my favorite music playing, burgers being handed to me between contractions, the comfort of my own bed and space around me. I dilated to 8 cm, my water broke, I was even being told to push through the pushing contractions that began. And Hawthorne? His forehead was filled with dents from trying to get through my cervix. He was trying SO HARD! We both were. Then despite all that, I went backward. His head was stuck in a tricky position, my cervix swelled, and I fell back to 5 cm.

That is when my midwife, who was and is a literal angel, told me I had a choice. We could keep going at home since we were both healthy and safe, or I could go to the hospital, get an epidural, and finally sleep after three days of exhaustion. After all, I still had to push out a baby. That was the moment I needed, the permission to know I was not giving up, that my body and my baby just needed help.

So off to the hospital we went. Bright lights. Ice chips. Constant interruptions. Twenty-four more hours of labor ending in a c-section because his little arm was wrapped up in the umbilical cord and pulling him back every time contractions pushed him down.

I told myself I had processed it. I talked about it. I journaled. I meditated. I honored my body. I grieved the birth I had envisioned and embraced the one we needed. I really believed I had worked through it.

But every year since, as my birthday and his approach, my body reminds me I have not. The anxiety rises. The emotions hit. This year, a migraine came out of nowhere. I felt foggy, snappy, restless. My body remembers even when my mind thinks it has moved on. And here is what I want to say about that: you can be the most spiritual, self-aware, emotionally in-tune person doing all the journaling, meditating, therapy, energy work, and processing, and still have layers you did not even know were stuck until your body taps you on the shoulder and says, “We are not done here.”

What I want this year is simple. Silence. Space. A journal. A beautiful meal. Time to sit with it all: my birthday, Hawthorne’s birthday, the joy of watching him grow, the grief of what did not go as planned, the anniversaries my body holds onto.

Today we are keeping his celebration low-key. Family, food, football, and simple decorations. He will love it. And maybe it will quiet the noise inside me just enough.

I do not have any big wisdom to share here. Just the reminder that sometimes our bodies keep speaking until we really listen. I hope this year I can shift from just “getting through” these days to actually feeling them and honoring what they bring up.

So happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to my boy. Cheers to laughter, growth, and maybe, finally, a little peace.