I hate you February

I just have to write this on my Birthday which is today, I hate me and I hate February so so much.

Dear February,

I swear I have never hated anything as consistently as I hate this month.

It’s almost the end of February and I’ve been counting down February like I’m waiting for it to loosen its grip on me. I don’t know why it feels like this every single year. I was born in this month. That’s it. That’s the only “crime” February committed. And yet somehow it feels like the root of everything. This month holds the original version of me , the first cry, the first breath, the first moment I existed in the world. And every year when it comes back, it drags that beginning with it. It reminds me that I started here. That I have a date attached to my existence. That I was placed into this world without ever choosing it.

February, you are the month I was born. This sentence should feel special. But when I say it in my head, it feels like a heavy hot stone I’ve been carrying for years without knowing where to put it down. You are the beginning of me. And sometimes I imagine if February didn’t exist at all. If the calendar skipped from January to March and nobody questioned it. Would I have slipped through too? Would I have stayed a possibility instead of becoming a person? Would that have been easier? And sometimes that thought feels… easier.

I know that sounds horrible. It’s just a month. But every time February comes around, I start feeling like I shouldn’t have been born at all. Like my existence is tied to something I resent. The date feels like a mark I can’t erase. A reminder that I still here, whether I wanted to or not.

Every time you come around, I feel exposed. Like the world is pointing at me and saying, “Another year.” Another year of being alive. Another year of not feeling quite right in my own skin. Another year of wondering if I’m actually becoming who I’m supposed to be or if I’m just drifting, moving forward because time does, not because I know where I’m going. February feels like a checkpoint I didn’t ask for, a marker that forces me to stop and look at myself and acknowledge, “You’re still here.” And sometimes that feels comforting, like proof that I’ve survived. But other times it feels like pressure pressing against my ribs.

Sometimes I think about the version of my parents before me. Before February. Before the hospital room. Before my first cry. There was a world moving without me in it. And sometimes that thought feels peaceful. A world that didn’t need to make space for me at all (why can’t it stay like that).

I don’t know why I struggle with that so much. Maybe it’s because being born means being seen. It means taking up space. It means having expectations attached to you. And some days I feel too small for all of that.

And it’s never just my birthday.

Me to February (die u idiot)

There’s always something. Some problem. Some emotional breakdown. Some situation that feels like it was designed to test how much I can handle. Every February there’s always “that something” and that something always pushes me closer to the edge of myself. It makes me question everything. It makes me tired in a way that sleep can’t fix.

This year is worse because it’s my graduation year. Of course it has to be in February. Of course the universe thought it would be funny to stack celebrations on top of each other. I already hate celebrating my birthday. I already hate being the center of attention, pretending I’m grateful and excited and full of life. Now I have to celebrate graduating too? Smile for photos. Dress up. Let people clap for me. Act like this is the happiest moment of my life.

I never planned to live this long. I never imagined this far ahead. When I was younger, the future felt blurry, like something that might not even happen. And now here I am, in my graduation ceremony, being told to celebrate again. As if my birthday wasn’t already hard enough. As if standing under that spotlight once wasn’t exhausting enough.

I’m supposed to feel proud. Accomplished. Grateful. I’m supposed to smile for pictures and hug people and let them tell me how amazing this is. And I know logically it is an achievement. I worked for it. I earned it. But inside I just feel tired. I don’t feel like celebrating. I don’t feel like being seen. I don’t even feel like explaining why I don’t feel happy.

I hate this month not because of the days themselves, but because of what they force me to confront. That I began. That I’m still here. That time keeps moving whether I feel ready or not.

It’s almost over now.

And I’m still here.

I don’t know if that’s strength or just habit anymore.