I grew up in a home where we didn’t really celebrate things.
Birthdays came and went like any other day —
no cake, no song, not even a half-hearted “happy birthday” over tea.
Good grades got a glance. Maybe a nod.
But never a moment.
We didn’t clap for wins.
We just moved on.
Christmas?
That wasn’t a holiday — it was cleaning day.
The one day my parents weren’t working was reserved for turning the house upside down.
Floors scrubbed. Rugs beaten. Walls wiped.
We cleaned like guests were coming — but no one ever did.
I used to watch other families take photos in front of trees,
unwrap gifts, laugh in new clothes.
Meanwhile, I was peeling onions and polishing windows.
Joy had a to-do list in our house.
Celebration was something other people did.
But now that I’m older, I’m learning to unlearn that quietness.
To clap when someone shares good news.
To say, “I’m proud of you,” without stuttering.
To buy myself a cake — even if it’s just a slice.
To say, “This moment matters.”
Because it does.
I’m learning that joy doesn’t just show up —
you have to give it space.
And maybe light a candle while you’re at it.
I don’t blame my parents —
they gave what they knew.
But now I get to choose what continues.
This is me, breaking the cycle, gently.
Not with fireworks, but with intention.
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