The Birthday without Cake

"Things do not change; we change."

Henry David Thoreau

I recently had lunch with The Oracle—a mate from university—a friendship that has somehow endured almost three decades. He's the kind of friend who always makes time when the chance comes up. Over carbs and spices—we were in a vegetarian Indian restaurant—he launched into one of his famously entertaining rants, this time about birthdays.

According to The Oracle, birthdays used to be simple. Someone remembered, and it was a grand, thoughtful gesture. Maybe a phone call, maybe a card, maybe even a cake. But then along came Facebook, and suddenly birthdays became a circus.

He painted the scene for me: you log into Facebook on your birthday, and the greetings start pouring in. One by one, your timeline fills with "Happy Birthday!" posts. Nice, right? Except now you have homework: replying. Do you say thank you as each one arrives? Or wait until the end of the day and post one giant "Thank you, everyone!" message? Either way, you're trapped. Because the moment you hit send, another latecomer posts a greeting, and boom, you're back on stage, repeating yourself.

Group chats, he said, are even worse. Once one person lights the candle, everyone else feels obliged to add their matchstick. If you reply, you fuel the fire. If you don't, you look rude. And some people, bless them, feel the need to wish you everywhere—Facebook, WhatsApp, Instagram, Messenger, group chat, email—like some fervent birthday parade following you down the street.

Listening to him describe it was like watching a one-man comedy show, absolutely hilarious, entirely entertaining. He even told me about going to his HR department and asking them to exclude him from the birthday memo.

We both laughed, but we also agreed: birthdays don't carry the same thrill they once did. At this age, I feel secure in myself. I don't need reassurance of my friendships through multiple cakes, surprise parties, and confetti explosions.

It also reminded me of my mother. Every year on her birthday, she did something quietly remarkable. Instead of gifts, meals, or parties, she encouraged us to make a donation to charity in her name. A simple, compassionate act that meant far more than another slice of cake or another round of "Happy Birthday" sung off-key.

And last year, on my own birthday, I published a book. That milestone meant more to me than all the greetings and parties in the world—proof that birthdays can hold meaning in ways unique to each of us.

Perhaps that's what growing older teaches us: birthdays don't need to be measured in noise, numbers or notifications. They can be marked in ways that feel genuine—whether it's a kind word, a small gesture, or simply just a laugh over lunch with an old friend. In the end, it's not the candles or the cake, but the quiet warmth of connection that stays with us.