happy birthday, don't you feel old?
voicemail (2): on turning eighteen, finding symbolism in life, and growing up. plus recent reads & favorites.
Until I was seven, my mom kept plastic bags in her purse. To my younger self, motion sickness was a mysterious and incurable deficiency, barely assuaged by acupressure and fresh air. Still, I clung to dizzy spells to feel special because even inadequacy is better than normalcy. It was better to be known as the puker than not to be known at all. In the back of my mind, I knew (but couldn’t accept) the scientific explanation: a conflict between brain signals (the eyes see stillness, while the inner ears sense motion).
Now, a different stagnancy disorients me. The need to survive ordinary days conflicts with the awareness that time is passing too fast. Paralyzed, I cancel plans to wallow. Fate replaces my parents as a chauffeur, recklessly speeding past fleeting scenes before I process them. All of a sudden, I am eighteen. My remaining milestones are the legal drinking age and death. Every previous birthday built towards adulthood. Now what? By command, I should mature—forgoing exploration and meltdowns in pursuit of self-sufficiency. I suppose I’m a late bloomer. My friends (most of whom are younger) have already jumped into the front seat and exited the freeway of childhood. Sarah took 13B to medical school; Jamie took 14A to theatre; Eli took 9B to law school. I’m paralyzed in the back seat, increasingly nauseous as my chauffeur misses every exit.
stop looking for symbolism.
Since December, I’ve suffered the symptoms of helplessness. Although I believe in free will, I pretend that my life’s author has embedded foreshadowing and symbolism into every interaction. Under scrutiny, serendipitous patterns become horoscopes. It is strange to be the character and also her spectator. When the spectator foresees disaster, the character walks into it—perhaps hoping to subvert dramatic conventions, or maybe it is self-sabotage masked as helplessness. Or both.
Example of a pattern:
a dream sequence from january 14—
content warning: surrogacy, infertility
You are standing in front of a skyscraper. An old woman smokes on the steps. She asks for your phone number, and you tell her. XXX-X18-XXXX. She hands you a magenta umbrella because it’s storming, which you hadn’t realized. She tells you that phone numbers with an “18” are doomed for infertility. Over there, she points, you can hire someone. You walk to the skyscraper on the other side of the street. After pushing through eight revolving glass doors, you arrive at the lobby. It’s warmly lit, but you are horrified at the rows of sewing women—some pregnant, some not. The CEO tells you that the floors are divided by continents. Continents? You wake up.
Informed by an ethics presentation about foreign surrogacy with atmospheric tones of The Piano Teacher, this dream is as disorienting as the first month of 2025. Obviously, the reference to “18” reflects my fear of adulthood; infertility represents the failure to fulfill my purpose—a narrative fed to women since birth. I’m disappointed that my author wrote such obvious (and insensitive) subtext for a clichéd theme. You guessed it!—I’m afraid of failing my adult endeavors. Don’t worry, it gets better.
from my pocket notebook, after a play—
directed by— written by—
dystopian future in which women are exiled if not married by 30. MC (29) goes on blind dates. comments on societal pressures.
The day before my birthday, I went to an acting class’s performance. My friend wrote the play, and another directed it. Against the somber soundtrack during scene transitions, I wondered if marriage is a collective anxiety. This allusion portrays my anxiety about running out of time. I was certain that, on the dawn of my eighteenth birthday, the hourglass would flip—the countdown to liberation (adulthood) replaced by a countdown to…death? The clinking of sand against glass will replace the occasional ringing in my ears, a reminder that limited time slips away.
00:01
As the clock struck midnight, I struggled to open a new bottle of eye drops. I think about microplastics. It was a painfully ordinary beginning to adulthood. I searched for symbolism but I won’t bore you with it. The normalcy, I reasoned, is because each day begins when I wake up—not when the date changes on a digital clock. I submitted a 600-word paragraph to my philosophy teacher (an hour after the 11:59 pm deadline), meditated, and went to bed.
In the morning, I felt even more ordinary when I exercised my new rights as an adult (i.e. signed a waiver for my 7:30 pm pilates class). My awaited enlightenment and anxiety never arrived. Even the birthday blues were delayed.
to post or not to post?
Birthday texts have always been a source of anxiety. Last year, I listed everyone who reached out, advised by friendship gurus on TikTok. (This year, I wrote about my birthday because every substacker writes about their birthday blues. Which is to say that I’m still a sheep). Eventually, my inboxes were inundated with “happy birthdayyyy”s and a few birthday posts.
For me, remembering is an act of love. Snapchat reminders and Instagram stories have made acquaintances’ birthdays unmissable—so it has become difficult to separate genuine acts of friendship from performative ones. But I don’t care. Much like my bus-puking six-year-old self, I liked feeling special. (At least for one day). There is no real distinction between a “happy birthday” prompted by memory and one by coincidence.
In May, I had a conversation with Maura—a fortysomethings driver—about the difference between soft-launching and hard-launching, to which Maura questioned “Why do you need to declare that you’re with someone?” Back then, it seemed unfathomable to love without declaring it on social media; seeing all of my friend’s “launches,” my hypothetical boyfriend’s refusal would be an act of betrayal. Social media has become a space for declarative statements, which often replace real action. While my followers don’t care about my friendships or that I believe in human rights, I’m compelled to declare my stance through an Instagram story. Reciprocity is important in friendship, but it shouldn’t be the only factor—especially in an arbitrary online space. I suppose what I’m trying to say is: it’s not that deep.
This year, I celebrated with a dance recital—surrounded by my favorite people who sang “Happy Birthday” as I stepped into the studio. During our West African dance, the drummer played twice as fast as he did during rehearsal, but that’s the joy of live performances. Enveloped by the drum’s echoes and the sound of bare feet on a makeshift stage, I’m forced out of paralysis: there is only the present.
weekly favorites.
books.
Since my last voicemail, I’ve read two new books! The first is Brutes by Dizz Tate, which required a bit of thinking to digest. But my jaw dropped in horror when I figured out the symbolism. (storygraph review)
I also finished The Rachel Incident by Caroline O’Donoghue yesterday. Maybe I’m fatigued from all of the messy-sad-broke-twentysomethings books, but this one didn’t stick out. It was a nice book, I guess. (storygraph review-to-come)
things.
Medito (app)
Against my contrarian nature, I started meditating after my therapist asked me to. Out of the apps I’ve tried, Medito is my favorite and beginner-friendly. And free!
Scriabin’s Etude op. 8 no. 12 (music)
Specifically Sultanov's interpretation.
Commonplace Books (concept)
Explained in this video. I’m obsessed with the idea of commonplace notebooks, but currently developing a system that would be the most practical for me.
substack.
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“on copying, technique and taste ✦ plus 6 close readings of great essay intros”
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“let me change your brain chemistry”
Using a Notebook in the New Year -
“How to Keep on Nodding Terms With Yourself”
call me back?
—sophia
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i deeply resonated with this essay, great work as always!! even now at 21, i still don’t have a single clue on how to fully diverge from childhood. so we’re in it together on that. happy birthday!
Turned 19 at the start of the month and attended a funeral that day, I doubt I need to describe the feeling. You can imagine