Five Birthdays

As I reluctantly move onto the 35-44 year-old bracket, I look back at the singular birthdays that made an impression, and potentially educate the man I am today.

Original: King Philip II of Spain banqueting with his family and courtiers (The Royal feast) by Alonso Sánchez Coello

It feels like a cliché to say that one does not particularly care a lot about our own birthday. The sentiment is trite, boring, and overused. For example:

“I’ve never been a big fan of celebrating my birthdays. Firstly, I don’t like being the center of attention, […] secondly, every new birthday reminds me of all of the things I still haven’t managed to accomplish in my life, and also effectively points out the new centimeter of forehead that I’ve grown these past 365 days of not-dying-but-getting-closer-to.”

That’s a wonkily-written excerpt from the essay “TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY AND ALSO THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE LAST TIME I SAW MY FRIEND ALIVE” written by yours truly and collected in my first book Today I Turn 30… and I’m Terrified. If writing about how repetitive it is to acknowledge one’s disdain for the holiday, I fear I’m guilty of double-homicide. Straight to the chair.

However, while I’ve been hawking for years across platforms about how disinterested I am of my own birthdays, the last one I had just over a month ago reminded me that there have been some that were actually quite great—quite remarkable.

Now, I’d be reaching if I said that the following five birthdays were life-changing; that each day marked a before and an after in my behaviour, thoughts, and customs. Honestly, it would feel a bit reductive and sorta dismissive to the rest of the efforts I’ve put each day to form the man I am today. But, just as a reflective exercise, let’s entertain the idea that these five birthdays made me or at least, in retrospection, symbolize the elements that constructed my past selves, and made my current one.

(In full transparency, at least for the first three, I’ll be taking a lot of creative liberty while recalling the events which transpired. I am, after all, just a dude with bad or even false memory.)

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This is a version of an essay from my new upcoming book…

… Out when I finish writing it.

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90s

I don’t exactly know the year. It might’ve been 1995. This is one of the earliest memories I have, and I’m not even sure if I actually remember the day or just watching the VHS recording of the day.

This birthday happened inside a McDonalds in the city of Torreón, Coahuila, in Mexico, where we were either living at the time or visiting, since my mother’s family resides there. My mom organized the event and it was Power Rangers-themed. In the VHS recording, you can see me wearing a 90s-kid bowl cut behind a big cake topped with little plastic figurines of the five Power Rangers. I remember playing the game of musical chairs with the help of the McDonald’s staff to the sound of “Ilarie” by Xuxa— a massive BOP at the time in northern Mexico, I assume. I don’t recall winning it but I think I do remember my cousin Moy getting upset after getting cut from the game (he would often get upset).

At some point the VHS recording cuts from the party to back inside my grandmother’s house at night, where you can see me excitedly opening presents while my mother records behind the camera.

“Who’s this one from, I wonder,” she asks coyly.

“It’s from dad!” I yell in a high-pitch after reading the label. My dad was out of town, probably in Sonora, probably killing drug-dealers (or that’s what I picture what his life at the time was).

I rip the wrapping paper, I’m sure, my mother worked hard on.

“Well, what is it?” she asks.

“THE RED POWER RANGER!” I yell.

“What do we say?”

“Thanks, dad!” I say to the camera.

It was my mother who, probably, also got the toy.

2009

It’s the weekend and we are gathered at my friend Antonio’s house to celebrate my 18th birthday: the day that I legally become an adult by Mexican government standards.

The celebration was more symbolic than factual. I had been (illegally) drinking for a couple of years by then, I’d gotten my ID card a few months back on account of being an election year, and my actual birthday had landed on a Monday. Even so, it felt quite official.

There is a 600 x 800 pixel photo on Facebook around the date which shows a Bieber-cut version of me, wearing an incredibly-2000s, slim fit, green, print, deep v-neck t-shirt under a brown zip-up. I’m sat on a white, plastic chair—a Mexican icon—surounded by friends, a something more than a friend, and a cousin. In front of us, a table with a massive bowl of chips in the middle. Foam cups, a 2 litre Fresca, a Valentina sauce bottle, a Jumex 1 litre pineapple juice box and some Indio caguamas surround the chips.

“Hey, how handsome, Beto!” Someone commented under the photo.

I remember it being just a hangout with most, if not all, of my high-school friends. Antonio’s house was located on the outskirts of the city of Oaxaca de Juarez, Oaxaca, Mexico, where I spent my middle-school and high-school. The house had a very Mexican provincial rustic aesthetic, and it sat in the front corner of a somewhat large piece of land. The backyard was filled with different kinds of fruit trees which gave it a maze-like vibe. We were hanging out in a large roofed portico, surrounded by red brick—maybe even adobe—walls and pillars.

The memory feels particularly important since, I’m assuming, most of us were mentally preparing to break up with the familiarity of the past 3 years of high-school. June 2009 was around the time of our graduation, and most of us were going to move to different states or, in my case, different countries. In reflection, that was probably the last night my big group of 12-15 friends were all together. I had broken into it after a first couple of rough high-school months where I couldn’t find my place. One night during that first semester, while hanging out with a cousin at a party, I ran into a guy I knew from school whom I wanted to befriend. I ended up giving him a ride downtown where he was going to meet his (and my future) friends.

“You owe me a hangout,” I yelled out from the window of my car.

“You betcha,” he replied.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Back to my birthday, he, my cousin, most of my friends, and I were just hanging out, shooting the shit, drinking, and laughing. I remember picking up a pack of cigarettes someone had brought in and smoking throughout the night. That was the first night I had ever smoked in my life, and also the last one. The other highlight of the event was one of my friends slicing his finger bad while fucking around with a beer bottle that shattered on the floor. Another friend took him to the hospital and he ended up getting a couple of stitches while drunkenly flirting with the nurse. She didn’t reciprocate.

2015

There’s a photo on my Instagram dated June 1st, 2015: my 24th birthday. Its caption reads, “The family I chose. # beyoncevevo“

At the time, I was heading into the last year of my musical theatre phase. A couple years prior, in early 2011, my friend Neri and I had bumped into an ad posted on our college bulletin board calling people to audition to be part of this theatre group called 19th Productions, which was mounting the play Chicago. I was opposed to the idea, it made me nervous, but Neri convinced me. From that day up until late 2016 my life would almost entirely be devoted to making theatre. Most of my time, energy, connections, thoughts, plans, and friends revolved around acting, dancing, and singing. I’d go to college in the morning, have a quick lunch, go to the theatre academy until nine or ten pm, then have dinner or partying with my theatre friends, depending on what day of the week it was. Not a lot of worries, the future felt bright and exciting. Those were some of the best years of my life up to that point.

The night of Sunday, May 31st, 2015, we had finished rehearsals for Footloose, the play we were mounting at the time. As was customary, I started going around asking (more like riling up) my friends to head over to our usual chicken-wings spot to have dinner. Everyone was giving me weird excuses as to why they actually couldn’t do it that night. It seemed odd to me, but the fact that I was secretly wanting to go hang out with my friends that night as a sorta low-key, unannounced birthday celebration muddled any other critical thought. I was bummed out!

After cursing everyone of my traitorous friends in my head, I said goodbye and went to my car.

“Hey! Can I hitch a ride with you? I’m meeting a date near your place,” my friend Sonia yelled out in the parking lot.

My friend Sonia NEVER had dates. But, again, I was not really thinking critically. We drove together to near my place, which was way out of the way for my friend to go on a date at 9pm on a Sunday.

“Is this guy my neighbor or what?”

“Actually, can I use your bathroom before going to my date?”

We headed inside my home and I was jumped by my friends, parents, and brother yelling “Surprise!”

In the heavily-filtered photo you can see me, my friends, and my brother all squeezed together over a couch, under some sort of party garland, wearing party hats. We are all still wearing our casual, comfy rehearsal clothes, and big smiles. When looking at it as a whole (and if you skip my brother who, at 15, looked like a child), the scene doesn’t seem so different, so old, like time hasn’t passed that much. It’s when I start looking closer when the details confess another story. One married and then divorced, one has a kid, one is a rising theatre star, one sadly passed away, another nearly as much. All of us look quite similar on the surface but we are now so different in deeper ways. Separated by interests, priorities, geography, and death. Time and experience weigh heavier on us than our photographed version. At the time, a lot of us were already growing out of the group, the night had way less members than what a gathering like this would’ve looked like a year or two prior, but—looking at all those embracing arms—that’s another secret the photo doesn’t tell.

I don’t remember the cake, or the food, the conversation we had, or even who actually organized this surprise party. I only remember the feeling of being turned down, coldly dismissed, and then shot back up way above. Feeling the warmth of being appreciated—feeling loved.

2021

It’s been a year since the pandemic started and me working from home. It’s Tuesday, June 1st, around 8 P.M. and I’ve been working in front of my computer since 7 A.M.

“How’s it going? Nearly done?” My dad asks after walking into my bedroom. “I just moved up our reservation to 9.”

“I don’t know, dad,” I nearly spat. “I’ll let you guys know in a bit.”

“Okay.” He walks out.

I remember feeling annoyed at him. I am working! Can’t he tell? But the thought of experiencing that interaction as an out-of-body scene, seeing my face as I rudely answered his question, seeing his as he walked back downstairs to where my mom and brother were sitting—all dressed up— waiting for me in the living room haunts me.

That period of my life was one of my busiest. I had been juggling practically three jobs in an effort to make as much money as possible before moving to Canada early next year. And I had also been working hard to self-publish my first book which I released that very day, since it was a “Turning 30” kind of thing. (And because I wanted to ride the increased algorithmic traffic one gets on their birthday to promote it.)

Because my mother is immunocompromised, we had taken the shutdown quite seriously. But some of my more insistent friends had managed to come by to pick up copies of my book in the previous couple of days. Selfies in my Photos app show me, at the forefront, separated by a gate or by a long table from friends posing with my book.

Looking back, the extra pressure I had on that day was a tad silly. I had just started being responsible for bigger things in one of my jobs, so I wanted to make a good first-ish impression. I was working on—what I assumed to be—a hard deadline and was waiting for confirmation by my boss about something.

In the end, I finally said “Fuck it”, turned off my computer, and joined my family downstairs. We went to a fancy restaurant nearby to have late dinner. I remember having a nice night in the end. I eventually found out that my boss didn’t even care that much about the deadline of the specific project I was trying to complete that night.

An archived Instagram story from the day shows me taking a selfie in front of my computer, with a caption saying “Been working since 7 AM. Is this what being in your 30s is about?”

My 30’s have not—actively—been about that at all.

2026

My journal has the following entry which I’ve slightly “cut for time” and added or removed context:

June 2nd, 2025 - Monday ———— Home

Yesterday was my 34th birthday, and it was a bit weird.

Biggest thing is that it was, I think, the first time I’ve ever spent a birthday truly alone. So, even though I had a nice time, it felt a bit bittersweet.

All throughout the morning I kept getting waves of sadness and nostalgia. I had a call with my family in the morning and then biked to Kits Beach to go to a beach cleanup event, which was nice. The day was lovely – sunny, clear skies and fresh air. I didn’t really think of anything big during the time I was on the beach, but then when [the event] finished, I ended up winning a couple of ferry tickets to Nanaimo, which made me feel like it was a birthday present from the universe. But as soon as the shock of winning ended, I started thinking “But I have no one to go with”, which made me feel sad. My eyes watered a bit even.

At the end of my day, I went to Ignite Pizza to have dinner by myself. [They randomly gave me a free extra pizza slice.] I sat on a bench at the bar next to the windows to avoid sitting on a table that is supposed to be for two people. Even though it was 8:30 PM, because this is Canada, it was the golden hour, and the sun was hitting my face in a lovely way.

This whole scene made me nostalgic again. Made me look back at the time I spent with [REDACTED] and [ALSO REDACTED], and it made me question if I’ll ever find something similar again here. (I will.)

Looking back, though, winning the ferry tickets and getting a free slice of pizza was like the universe making sure I had a nice birthday.

It was definitely nice. Talked to my family, rode my bike, got a book and a message from [REDACTED], went to the beach, walked around, had two ice creams, went for pizza – all under a lovely blue sky.

Quite a few pages further, my journal also has the following entry:

June 1st, 2026 - Monday ———— Home

Today was my birthday—I’m 35 now—and I think I had one of the best days of my life.

I guess it was more of a birthday long-weekend, since it started on Friday. Here’s a list of all the things that happened: […]

A two-page list ensues.

Starting the previous Friday and throughout the weekend, I had lovely Teams calls with coworkers, met friends for dinner and a boardgame night, ran into an amicable past flame, a not so amicable celebrity, tried a couple new restaurants, finally sold one of my cursed items on Marketplace, hiked up Grouse Mountain, ran into some run-group peeps, had coffee with a friend, ran into and chatted with a local writer I’m a big fan of—all under a beautiful Vancouver almost-summer weather.

On Monday, June 1st—my actual birthday—I took the day off from work to walk around downtown and have lunch. My aunt Maricruz video-called me (she usually does on my birthday) and we had a lovely chat. When I got back home, the new book from my favorite author I’d ordered a week prior had arrived. I then met my Canadian bestie for coffee, and she gave me a great book. I then went to a beach cleanup event, just like last year, at Kitsilano Beach; where I scored BIG when I found a pair of broken, fancy sandals someone had abandoned on the sand. After the event ended, one of the organizers saw an Instagram story I posted tagging the event and sent me a couple of lovely messages. By then it was 7 PM and I decided to, instead of going home, just sit down on a bench next to the beach to watch the sunset over the mountains. My journal reads:

The sunset and overall vibe while at the bench were amazing. It’s one of the most beautiful days I’ve experienced in my life. There was a bunch of people enjoying the beach, a guy was playing relaxing music on a guitar, people were happy, there were dogs playing, old people dancing, boats on the horizon, the mountains looking so pretty, a cool breeze blowing, the waves smoothly crashing, the sun just the right amount of warm – So. Beautiful. Multiple times I choked up. It was one of the most beautiful times of my life.

When the sun finally set, I walked to a Korean restaurant to have dinner by myself, where I randomly ran into another person I kinda know.

This 2026 one is kinda long-winded—I mean, it’s the one that I recall the most—but I wanted to list out most of the things that ensued because I kinda don’t believe they happened otherwise. Not to be more corny about it but it really felt like a magical weekend.

But even though it was truly magical in some ways (I can’t really control the weather or the routes my acquaintances take on their day-to-days, for example), my rational—and perhaps prideful—brain knows that it was the result of a year and a half of constantly putting myself out there and starting building connections with my community and with the people I surround myself with. I now re-read that 2025 journal entry and it breaks my heart looking at the version of me who was still—I can now recognize—going to the process of rebuilding his life after a curb-ball and finally working up the courage to get out there, to make luck and magic find him. I can see, too, that even then I believed it could happen “(I will.)” and, indeed, it finally started to.

While sitting on that bench I typed the following, which I then posted on a photo carousel on my instagram that very June 1st:

35 today!🎂😱 Fueled by that and perhaps by having had one of the best years of my life to date, I’ll let myself be both sentimental (on main) and a bit less humble just for today.

Last week I was sitting in my house, doing nothing, and looked around. Initially I glanced at my stuff—my books, my clothes, my trinkets; then I looked at my furniture and the walls; then I thought of my job, the people I know, my activities, the lessons I’ve learned, my history, and the systems that build my day-to-days; and thought: Wow - I’ve done all that.

I’m so lucky and grateful for my upbringing and for the support of all of the people that have made me capable of building a life that I love. I thank the stars everyday that I have a healthy body and a healthy mind, which are invaluable and sometimes a bit of a gamble and out of our control.

Even though there’s some days that it’s kinda harder to see, I’m so happy and proud of the man I’ve become and excited to better myself every day. I think if I showed my teenage self the current life we live (after telling me I’m ancient), he’d think I’m so cool—and he’d be correct.

And, while knowing that there’s plenty of ups and downs to come, because I know myself better than ever, I’m—for the first time since I was probably 17–very excited to grow even older. 🫶🏼

There’s a selfie on my phone, dated June 1st, 8:49 PM at Kitsilano Beach Park, that shows me, sitting at that bench, facing the upcoming sunset. I’m wearing a pink, short-sleeved linen shirt over a white tank; the Ray-Bans my brother gifted me a couple of Christmases ago hang near my neck. I’m looking directly at the lens. The golden hour light is making wonders on my skin, but I can start seeing my expression lines getting a little deeper, a little wiser—signs of a life filled with smiles and laughter. Speaking of smiles, I’m wearing one. Not a forced one or an exaggerated one, but a soft, subtle one. A smile from someone who feels like he’s played his cards right so far; who’s not afraid of experiencing life; who is content of both being with others or by himself; who knows who he is and is so proud of this version and the previous versions of him; who knows the future—now more than ever—is uncertain, but welcomes it with confidence and eagerness; who is excited about a 36th birthday, a 40th, 60th, 90th.

He is someone who—guesses—secretly actually likes birthdays, not for the cake or presents, but because they really act as a life-checkpoint, a reminder of all the things he’s built so far and the ones he wants to achieve; and, perhaps most importantly, a special observance to all the human connections that light up his life, far and near, even brighter than the most beautiful sunset over the beach.

The journal entry ends with:

Such a beautiful weekend and birthday. I feel so happy, so grateful, so full.

So happy to be 35!

Thanks for reading!